


Troubled Souls

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Everybody Suffers, Fucked Up, Gay Sex, Heterosexual Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant With The Very End Of The Final Problem, Not much of it of course, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, holmescest, minor John Watson/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: They have survived the day in Sherrinford. Sherlock and Mycroft as well as Sherlock's friends are suffering from the events and from dealing with all kinds of difficulties beforehand. How will they cope?
Relationships: Molly Hooper/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 203
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



####  Mycroft

“Is there anything else I can do, sir?”

Mycroft shook his head, tiredly meeting Anthea’s look, his hand closing around the mug she’d just brought him. “No, thank you. You can finish for today.”

“Will you stay for much longer?”

He should have felt annoyed by her insistence. But he knew where it came from. It was not impertinence. It came from a place of care and concern. “No. Everything is done. I will call the car soon.” He rubbed his forehead and realised that his bones felt as if he had been working a shift in some kind of mine instead of basically sitting at this desk all day.

“All right. Good night, sir.” She was smiling but he could see the worry in her eyes.

“Good night, Anthea.”

He listened to her steps leaving his office. Yes. It was all done. Eurus was secure. Well, he had believed that before, too, and had been almost laughably wrong, but this time he was sure that he had thought of everything. New staff, constantly monitored. Stable people, able to follow orders. A female governor who would not disobey him; a tough woman with plenty of experience in dealing with manipulative lunatics (albeit certainly not of his sister’s league). Eurus being monitored 24/7.

She hadn’t looked very dangerous anymore when she was brought back into her cell the previous night – he had watched the video of her return when he had been freed from the cell she had locked him into after sedating him like Sherlock and the doctor. She had looked closed up. Almost meek. A ruse? Was she planning more mayhem? Well, if so, she would be disappointed. That was never going to happen again.

Sherlock had decided to visit her. Sherlock and his impossible forgiveness for people who tried to harm or even kill him. Little brother getting involved. But he had shown this forgiveness for the Watsons already, finding excuses for inexcusable actions. _Mary almost killing him?_ \- Oh, she had her reasons _. John beating and kicking him to a pulp?_ \- Sherlock's own fault… As if… And this time it was literally family… Probably little brother blamed her unhappy childhood for her lack of empathy and general craziness… Or him…

Mycroft was going to let him go to Sherrinford. If Sherlock thought he could change their sister for the better or give her some comfort in her loneliness, who was Mycroft to forbid it? Well, only the brother she had wanted to see dead… But then – when she'd had the opportunity, she had let him live. He guessed that she wouldn’t even really respond to Sherlock. But if he wanted to try… The rules were clear. Their meetings would be supervised. Any hint at Eurus trying to reprogram Sherlock, or anyone for that matter and he would never see her again. Of course – their parents wanted to visit her, too. Well, if they insist... They would see how senseless it was. Even if she hadn’t been basically mute now – all she had ever cared about is Sherlock. If one could call it ‘care’. Obsession might be the better word. Well, he’s one to talk…

Their parents’ wrath, unleashed at him in Sherlock's presence a few hours ago, had hurt him. Being shouted at by the PM and Sir Edwin and even Lady Smallwood had made him feel numb and small but he’d had it coming. He deserved it. He had failed. Bitterly. He should have just believed his brother and the doctor that they had met her and gotten her locked up without risking their lives. People had died. _Sherlock_ could have died. Mycroft would never forgive himself for that.

Sherlock had tried to defend him against the (understandable) anger of their parents – Sherlock of all people. That Sherlock cared at least that much should have made Mycroft feel grateful – and it did, of course it did – but it had also left a sour feeling of failure and weakness. His little brother trying to protect him, from their parents no less – it was unprecedented, and he knew that he hadn’t deserved it. He would have deserved this bullet much more than Sherlock's support…

Very slowly, he got up after letting his driver know that he was needed. It was time to go home to catch some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day. People had lost their loved ones. There had to be negotiations and repercussions. He was not going to do them himself, of course. He was just a shadow. The public didn’t know his face or his name and it was essential to keep it that way. But these matters would have to be handled very delicately. He would leave this to people who were used to covering up the dirt. But he would need to give them some advice. Guide them. Perhaps it would make him feel like having a last bit of control.

When he had dragged his body out of the Cabinet Office, feeling as if he was at least eighty years old, he entered the car. On his way home through the dark but busy streets of London, he stared out of the window and didn’t notice anything. A deep sadness had engulfed his heart, and it had started to linger long before Sherrinford.

####  Sherlock

“You can't stay here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “My brother was wrong. It was basically only the living room that had been destroyed.” The big bad patience grenade… What a joke. Well, not a funny one.

Mrs Hudson sighed. “It’s missing a wall.”

“It makes the room brighter.”

She giggled next to him and Sherlock smiled, wrapping his arm around the short, old lady. He knew he had every reason to be grateful. Things could have been so much worse. His living room was a mess, yes, but his bedroom and the bathroom were still intact, apart from some tiles that had fallen off the bathroom wall. Even his armchair had survived – sitting in the dishevelled living room like a shabby throne. John’s chair hadn’t, though. It was a ruin of burnt wood and fabric.

This was not a place to meet clients at, no, but right now, he couldn’t have cared less. They had all survived – the explosion and the hell of Sherrinford. Not the governor and his wife and the Garrideb brothers but he and John and Mycroft. Even Eurus.

Would he be able to make a connection with her? Like he had promised her? He supposed that his brother hated the sheer thought of it. And he did understand that. But in the end, Mycroft himself had always tried to keep her as comfortable as possible. He had taken care of her because she was his sister. Like he had always cared for him, no matter how much Sherlock had failed and no matter how ghastly he had been behaving towards his big brother. Probably Eurus would remain beyond their reach as she had always been but he wanted to try. It would placate their parents at least, which might make them forgive Mycroft for lying to them about Eurus – or more precise: for going on with the lies Uncle Rudy had told them when Mycroft had only been a child himself. And in the end, Eurus had told him how to save John. She had at least done something good in this night of mayhem and murder, and in his eyes, that made her deserve at least a try to connect with her.

Today had been one hell of explaining the disaster to quite a few people. Not only to the parents. The police had had some questions, too. He had been sitting in Lestrade’s office, having a conference call with Mycroft, Lady Smallwood and other ‘important’ people. His brother had looked gaunt and beaten. Not a picture Sherlock had liked to see… And how meek he had been with their parents… Mycroft had been suffering. Much more than him. Sherlock didn’t really care what their parents thought of him. But for Mycroft, who had always been the good son, it had to be hard. His brother was not only not as strong as he thought he was. He was also much more sensitive than he would ever be willing to admit.

“Will you go back to John?” Mrs Hudson asked softly.

Sherlock shrugged. He had spent the two previous nights since the explosion at John’s place. But he hadn’t felt very comfortable there. Everything had reminded him of Mary and how it all had ended. It was not his flat and had felt strange and unfriendly. And a screaming child was not what he needed when he fell into bed, exhausted and tired. And John… Where did they stand with each other? Now that the turmoil was over and they had to face reality again? “I don’t think so. I prefer my own bed.”

“But what if the rest of the flat is not safe, either?”

“It is. Believe me, I’m a scientist.”

“Not an architect though, dear. Just to sleep, if you insist, hm? My flat is always open for you. Meet your clients there if you like. And you can have my guest room to sleep in.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. What would I be without you?”

She smiled and patted his arm and he embraced her, ever grateful for her ongoing support. She had been there for him when basically all his friends had turned their back on him in one way or another – a thought he immediately dismissed even though he knew it was true. This old lady had been his rock. Always on his side… Even when she had forced him into her trunk at gunpoint. It had been for a purpose… He was not sure if it had really helped though... And lately he had thought that she might regret having forced them to talk to each other again. She didn’t seem to be that fond of John anymore…

His life had been shaken up once more; long suppressed memories of his childhood had been released from their containment ever since he had learned the truth about Redbeard. Nothing would ever be the same again and he felt as if he had gotten into a tsunami of truths that were lies and lies that were true. His life had been messed up for years now – ever since he had been dealing with Jim Moriarty. He hadn't found any peace since then. Was he going to find it now?

####  John

He stood under the shower spray until the water turned cold. Rosie was sound asleep in her crib so he could take his time. Recently, he had spent an unreasonable amount of time in his shower cubicle. Scrubbing himself until he’d been sore.

Stepping out of the cabin eventually, his fingertips having become wrinkled and numb, he grabbed a towel and dried himself off vigorously. He should have felt refreshed. But all he felt was exhaustion that went way beyond the physical sense. It was not possible to wash it off. Not like he had done in his early years as an army doctor. Leaving the battlefield, seeking out food and hot water and feeling like a new man when sand and dirt and other people's blood had vanished in the drain. These days, the stains remained, as invisible as they were.

He had cancelled his shift in the clinic after the awful adventures in Sherrinford. He had been in no condition to meet the world and do his job. So much had happened in these more than twelve hours, ending with him being rescued from this fucking well at the very last moment – it was a miracle he hadn’t yet caught a cold or worse. Sherlock had made his sister tell him where he had been. By promising her to take care of her. How? She would never get released from Sherrinford. If John had a say in this, she would end up in a dungeon with the key thrown away. Bitch…

He almost expected Mary to show up and remind him of his flirting and texting with Sherlock's sister. It’s a memory to puke about. How could he…? But Mary was gone. He couldn’t see or hear her anymore. She had left him, too. He shook his head about himself. She had left him long before, dying for Sherlock, of all people.

Dressed in fresh underwear, a loose grey shirt and jog pants, he walked over to Rosie’s room. Opened the door as quietly as possible. She was sleeping tight, her beautiful little face turned to the door, her fine blond hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. His heart was filled with love when he watched her. This was the best thing that had happened to him in all his life. Would he be able to cope when she got older though? Without her mother at his side? He’d got Harry, and his mum. And Molly Hooper. But none of them could replace Mary.

It was too quiet in his flat. It had never been quiet when Mary had still been here. In a distant corner of his mind, he heard her laughter. Watched her rummaging noisily through the kitchen utensils. Nobody cooked here anymore.

And Sherlock wouldn’t come to him tonight, either. Preferred sleeping in his own bed in his damaged flat. It was going to be rebuilt soon enough. And then everything would be like before. The detective and the doctor, solving cases and blogging about it, albeit not living together anymore. Even if 221B had been big enough for three people – there was no way back to this. And Sherlock hadn’t asked him to move back in anyway.

John poured himself a generous helping of whiskey and downed it in one go. Then he slowly walked through his silent home, heading for his bedroom. A large bed for two, with Mary’s side remaining empty forever.

Nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

And when Rosie started to cry only two hours after he had finally managed to fall asleep, he dragged himself to her to change her nappies and feed her, and his heart was heavy despite the smile his little daughter lured out of him as she always did. His last light in all the darkness around him – and in him.

####  Molly

She hung up her light jacket and slipped out of her shoes. Carefully, she moved her head. Her neck and shoulders were creaking. Everything was feeling stiff and sore. A full day doing autopsies and writing reports lay behind her. She was only thirty-five. Vaguely, she wondered how she would be feeling after a normal day at work in twenty years.

The stress of the day had numbed her mind. A good thing. But now… While she was walking through the silent corridor on bare feet towards the kitchen, the pain started throbbing in her again. She bit her bottom lip. When she stumbled over a misplaced toy and hurt her toe – Rosie had been here quite often over the past weeks – she felt the urge to kick the wall.

Stupid. She was just so stupid.

She opened the fridge. Ignored the food – olives from a deli. Good French cheese. She hadn’t eaten much all day but she was not hungry. Instead, she took out the bottle of red wine she had opened before… _Before_. She poured herself a glass and toasted to nobody in particular before she drank half of it in one go.

_I love you._

She sat down on one of her not exactly comfortable kitchen chairs. Why did she even have four of them?

Her hand was cramping around the glass. Perhaps it would break, making splinters boring into her skin. Like in a bad film…

For God’s sake. She was a doctor. She owned a house. She didn’t need a man to maintain her. And Sherlock Holmes was the very last man she needed.

God. She needed him. So badly.

Pathetic.

He had texted her. When it had been all over.

_Molly. I’m sorry. I was forced to make you say these words. I was made to believe you were in danger of being killed. Good night. SH_

She had stared at this text. Had felt like throwing her phone against the wall.

But why? Had she really believed that he had meant it? He had said it because she had demanded it. She had to mean something to him – after all he had thought he was saving her life by humiliating her.

Yes. She knew exactly what she meant to him. Like he had once said – he needed her. For giving him access to all kinds of equipment. Providing him with body parts. Or a whole corpse that looked like him for a change… Taking her on a case to thank her – calling her ‘John’ all the time.

She had been right all those years ago. She didn’t count.

The tears ran freely when she was downing her second glass of wine.

####  Greg

“Isn’t this a case for the freak?”

Greg sighed. He rubbed his eyes when he answered her. “Donovan. I thought we’d left this behind. He’s no freak. He’s saved our arses more often than I can count.”

“Sorry. I know he’s your friend, sir. But that last stunt…”

“That was hardly Sherlock's fault, was it?”

Sally shrugged. “It was a Holmes. They are all…” She made a certain gesture with her right hand.

He knew that it would be pointless to explain to her that neither Sherlock nor his brother had any resemblance to their sister. Of course she had never met Mycroft Holmes. Probably she would find him crazy, too, though…

The man had been a wreck when Lestrade had checked on him as he had promised Sherlock. A man full of guilt and despair. But of course he wouldn't show it openly. He was a politician of sorts – his features schooled to indifference and detached politeness. If Greg hadn’t met him that often due to Sherlock-related incidents over the years, he would have only noticed that he looked tired and exhausted. But as it was, he could see that Mycroft had been feeling deeply troubled by the shocking events he’d had to take part in. Greg had asked him if he could help him in any way and for a moment, the icy blue eyes that had suddenly not been that icy at all had flickered. The tall man had thanked Greg and told him that he was fine but grateful for his support, especially his support for Sherlock.

Yes. His support for Sherlock… Greg felt sick at the thought of how very unsupportive he had recently been. Had he been blinded by the fame of the Fantastic Two? Understood how a man, even Sherlock's best friend, could freak out at the detective’s shenanigans? But John had not told him that he had still beaten and kicked Sherlock when their friend had been devoid of the scalpel with which he had threatened the murderer, lying helplessly on the floor, enduring, even accepting his fate as a well-deserved punishment.

Smith had told Greg about it in between talking about his own crimes. With glee. His daughter had called for help – Smith would have loved to see Sherlock being kicked to death. He had not said this explicitly but it had been written between the lines. He would have loved to see John turning Sherlock into a ‘thing’...

Greg had almost fallen off his chair in shock when he had learned how much damage John had done to Sherlock and would have done had he not been pulled away.

And still… Still he had done nothing. Knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t want it, yes. Sherlock had said so after all. A good excuse. Not good enough, though. He had been friends with John, too. Had he even shied a confrontation with him? Not because out of fear that John could lash out on him, too. But because… He didn’t know it. Lately, he hadn't known all that much anymore…

He had been feeling so fed up. Fed up with basically everything. Everything had fallen apart – his marriage, finally. His job had begun to feel shallow and disgusting. The Smith-case… The never-ending confessions of this insane individual that had occupied days and days of his time… Following him into his dreams… Dealing with this horrible man had been the last nail to this coffin…

He looked down at the corpse to his feet. A young man. Probably a drug dealer, judging by the contents of his pockets. Lying on his front with an axe in his neck… Not quite the way another dealer would have gotten rid of him... Sally was right. It was a case for Sherlock. But Greg wouldn’t call him. Sherlock needed a break. Even the world’s only consulting detective deserved that. And after the previous night, Greg was pretty sure that Sherlock was not after a juicy murder case… For a change, he and his team were going to solve it on their own. And if not…

He hardly cared anymore…

####  Mrs Hudson

She could still feel Sherlock's lips on her cheek. Her boy had kissed her goodnight before he had gone upstairs into his ruined flat.

It was hard not to see it as a metaphor. All the horrors he had endured over the past years… His life had fallen apart at the seams. She couldn’t even imagine how he had been feeling after jumping from that roof and going undercover, all alone. To save her. To save a policeman that had saved him so many years ago by trusting him, by giving him a purpose. And, of course, to save his best friend. A man who had turned his back to everybody afterwards, not staying in touch with any of them. Overwhelmed by his grief, John had done everything to erase this pain. Had hurled himself into a relationship with a woman whose whole life had been a lie.

Martha Hudson had learned the truth about Mary only after her death. When she had found Sherlock in his flat, forming a ball of guilt on his couch. He had told her. About Mary’s past – an assassin she had been. About this horrible man – Magnussen. Whom he had killed to save Mary. After she had almost killed him by shooting at him.

It had almost torn her apart. What else had she been missing? Nobody had told her anything. She had believed Mary when she had spoken about her childhood – nothing of it had been true. She had believed that Sherlock had been shot during a case – which had not been entirely untrue after all but only half of the truth. And when he had been sent away after shooting a man in the head – and it still felt totally unreal to think that her Sherlock was capable of that – he had only told her that he would go on a mission. Which had also been true. But it had been a mission from which he had not been supposed to return.

How could Sherlock's brother do that? Sending his little brother to his certain death? Only to call him back when Moriarty had appeared. She had despised him before for being rude and arrogant to the extreme. But at this point, she had started to hate him.

And then it had been Mycroft who had come down running to her flat in the attempt of saving her from the explosion. It had not done any damage to her flat so they had left it without a scratch. But he had been so afraid. Afraid that Sherlock could be killed. She had pressed his hand when they had found Sherlock and John on the pavement, their clothes singed and torn and their faces and hands scratched up and dirty but both miraculously uninjured. For a moment, he had smiled and returned the pressure. And now he had offered his life in this ghastly prison, trying to sacrifice himself so John could live.

Not a reptile, this man, after all. Just another complicated Holmes man who despaired at any normal behaviour. But what was normal after all? Nobody could call her and her life choices normal, either. Like Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes did have a huge heart. If only for his little brother. Wasn't that all that counted anyway? She had told him a long time ago that family was all they had in the end. And his family was Sherlock, and obviously, he would do anything for him. Did she really believe that he would have let Sherlock die on this mission? Certainly not. He would have sent someone to save him. She had mentioned this to Sherlock, and he had looked at her and after a long moment, he had nodded _. “Perhaps,”_ he had said, pensively, _“he would have even come himself.”_

So… Sherlock could clearly count on his brother. In fact, she should have seen this when the older Holmes had come to search the flat while Sherlock had been in this horrible hospital. He had not come to convict Sherlock of anything, not because he would have really thought that Sherlock was a threat to the country. How stupid she had been to believe that. He had come because he had been worried, like he had always been worried about his little brother. She had misjudged him, and she wasn’t going to do that again.

Like she had misjudged John…

She had forgiven the doctor for disappearing after Sherlock's alleged death. For reacting so nastily when Sherlock had come back after those two long years. For not wanting to talk to Sherlock after Mary’s death even though it had made her so sad to see the boy suffer.

But she would never forgive him for attacking Sherlock like he had done in this hospital.

Of course – she had missed this, too. She had believed that Sherlock had been injured during his fight with this killer. The killer he had given himself to in order to make John save his life. To save John in return, like Mary had wanted it. At this time, Mrs Hudson had felt so much pity for the young widower with the baby that she had not questioned the words of a dead woman who had not been what she had pretended to be. She had been glad that it had worked. Her two boys had reconciled. But… Something had appeared odd to her whenever she had been watching them together. They had been a lot quieter around each other. There had been strange side glances at one another. Cautiousness had lingered in the air. There had been no more shared smiles, let alone laughter. And one day, Greg Lestrade had been in Baker Street, and she had brought tea and caught him staring at John. With no friendliness whatsoever even though she knew that Greg and John were some kind of friends, too.

When the policeman had left, she had been busy with cleaning the hallway _. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, Detective Inspector?”_ she had said. _“John?”_ She had been blind for too long, thinking she was so smart and knew everything about her boys. But she was not a fool – and she did know a thing or two about luring the truth out of unsuspecting people. And it had been very obvious that the handsome DI knew what was going on between Sherlock and John.

He had stopped on the steps and nodded darkly. _“Yeah. If Sherlock just wanted to press charges… What if he does it again?”_

It hadn't come as a surprise. In fact, she had known at once what he was talking about. Deep down her heart, she had probably already known it. And it still had shaken her to the core. _“He better not.”_ And involuntarily, she had raised the wooden scrubber a bit, and he had smiled, sadly.

“ _Don't mess with him. If he ever gets violent again, call me at once. No matter what Sherlock says.”_

It had broken her heart. Again. How was it even possible? Sherlock had done so much for John, and for Mary, and John had hurt him? Left him in this hospital, knowing or at least suspecting that this horrible man had killed lots of people there? He had saved Sherlock in the end how he had been supposed to. But what if he had come too late? And there was no excuse whatsoever for injuring his so-called best friend. None at all.

Sherlock had obviously forgiven him, and she had not raised this subject with either of them. Not yet. Mainly because John had rarely been at Baker Street afterwards – usually only for cases. Sherlock hadn't seemed to miss him that much anymore. He had become so quiet. No drugs, not again. But he had hardly ever played the violin. No horribly smelling experiments had taken place. He had barely left the flat. He had… resigned, it seemed.

He had stopped going to the morgue before – during the time when John had not wanted to see him. And Molly Hooper had not come by a single time. It hadn't taken a genius to figure out that she had taken John's side. It had irked Mrs Hudson, but probably it was for the better, considering the needs of the child. Rosie should have some female company. And Mrs Hudson had hardly been asked to babysit until the night the boys had left to confront Sherlock's secret sister.

And now that she knew the truth about John, she would not want that anymore. She could hardly endure him anymore. She was missing the baby. But she despised the father, as hard as it was. Everything in her cried for shouting it into his face. But she knew that Sherlock wouldn’t want that. It made her feel… sore. And sick. And useless.

She listened to the quiet noises in the upstairs flat. Sherlock had showered and would probably go to bed now. She hoped that he would find some rest; he needed it badly. And she would have liked to believe that the next day would be more pleasant for him. But given the circumstances, she didn’t have much hope.

And then she had an idea.


	2. Chapter 2

####  Baker Street

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Appreciatively, Sherlock looked at the goodies she had brought on her tray. Scones. Strawberry jam. Cream. “You are spoiling me.”

“Somebody has to.” Mrs Hudson sat down opposite of him at the kitchen table. She poured tea for both of them, and Sherlock could see that she hadn’t slept any better than he'd had.

She was worried. About him, of course. He looked at her more closely than he had done for a long time. How fragile she was. Each of her eighty years showed in her face. A troubled woman. And she knew about John… Who had told her? He had chosen not to… He wouldn’t have wanted her to choose between the men she both loved like sons. John? Definitely not. Lestrade, most certainly. Probably he hadn’t even noticed that he was being interrogated… Lestrade had been in a weird mood lately, he realised, thinking of their last few meetings. He hadn’t paid much attention to him, naturally, but the DI had obviously been going through some rough times lately. Well, who hadn’t….

“How did you sleep?” Mrs Hudson interrupted his thoughts while handing him the mug. “You don't look as if you had a good night.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was a bit loud.” The disadvantages of a flat in the middle of London with a room minus its exterior wall... But of course that hadn't been the only reason for him to toss and turn. There had not been any lack of such reasons lately.

“You should… Well, I know you want to stay here.”

He tilted his head. “Should do what? Go back to John?” He saw her wince. Definitely not what she’d had in mind. Just as he had thought.

“I don’t think you would get much rest there. Rosie certainly wakes up at least once a night. And my guest bed is there for you but I suppose you wouldn’t find it very comfortable, either.”

“I’m glad if I can use one of your rooms for meeting clients, should any show up indeed. My bedroom is probably not very appropriate.” What was she on about? And he was well aware that she didn’t think that Rosie was the problem… His deduction skills had not been the best as of late but he still managed to read that.

She smiled. “You can do that of course. But I really don’t like you being up here on your own. In two days the workers will come to start repairing the flat. They will bring noise and dirt. You need a place where you can stay without being disturbed all day. Where it’s quiet, at least most of the day.”

“A hotel?” Sherlock smirked. He had a strong suspicion what she meant. And it was not an option, was it?

“No, dear. Your brother. Doesn’t he have a house all for himself?”

He did. For a reason… Mycroft didn’t like people around him. He didn’t like _people_ , bottom line. “He does have enough space but… I don’t think he would be amenable to letting me live with him.”

“Why not? Even if he wasn’t at work all day anyway - you mean a lot to him, dear.”

Where had this come from now? Since when was Mrs Hudson as fond of Mycroft as she had just sounded? “I thought you don’t like him?”

“It doesn’t matter if _I_ like him, Sherlock. He’s your brother. And I’m sure he would be fine with you staying at his place until you can move back into your flat in earnest. He can’t want you to live in ruins.”

Certainly Mycroft thought he was living with _John_ … And why wouldn’t he? Sherlock had always turned to John when he had been in need of something. He had never asked Mycroft for help – the only exception being his fake death to beat Moriarty. There had been nobody else to work with than Mycroft with all his power and connections. Mycroft had been his contact when he had been away. They had not been in touch a lot but his brother had been some kind of lifeline, mentally and physically. In the end, he had helped him get out, even if he had been a bit unwilling to do legwork. And Sherlock did know that his brother had hardly enjoyed watching him being whipped. That had been a stupid thing to say… And then, when Sherlock had been back – he had dropped Mycroft again, hadn’t he? He had focused on reconciling with John, and then all this trouble with Mary and Magnussen, now Eurus… No. Mycroft would not want him to be around after this… He clearly blamed himself for what had happened in Sherrinford. Suddenly Sherlock didn’t feel very generous anymore about having sent Lestrade to check on his brother…

“And I do like him now,” Mrs Hudson surprised him.

“Really? How come?” Sherlock bit into a scone with a cream-and-jam topping. It was heavenly.

“Well, I was here when your flat blew up, wasn’t I? He got me out of the house.”

“I told him to.” Why had he even found it necessary to say this? Was he jealous of Mycroft? Certainly not… Old habits, in all probability – ‘dissing’ his brother. Old habits that nobody needed...

“Yes, but he was really… kind. And how worried he was about you…”

Sherlock recalled this day in vivid detail. How he had insisted that John was ‘family’. And that flicker in Mycroft's eyes at this… Strange. He had not wasted a thought on this before. No wonder that Mycroft had thought he would kill him. Hadn’t he always prioritised John over him?

God… This was so fucked up.

“Ask him, Sherlock. He will say yes. He might need someone around, too. I have to say he fooled me with this _stay-away-from-me_ persona. And usually, that’s certainly how he is.”

Oh yes. Mycroft had always been like that. He just wasn’t fond of people. Maybe with the exception of this old woman, Smallwood. But… They were just… Well, not even friends. Just colleagues… He certainly didn’t… do anything with her… Sherlock shuddered and then wondered why. Fine, he had taken Mycroft for a homosexual all his life and he didn’t find this woman exactly attractive, but if his brother really had someone to warm his bed, good for him… And another reason why Sherlock wouldn’t want to live with him. The thought made him feel awkward and nauseous.

“With one exception.”

Sherlock looked up. She couldn’t have known anything about Lady Smallwood…

Mrs Hudson gave him a disbelieving look. “You, of course! You even said he would have possibly come for you himself, if he hadn't called back the plane because this awful man seemed to be back.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He did in Serbia.” Had he really thought that Mycroft wanted him to die in Eastern Europe? He had not thought about it much. Possibly not at all. At this time, he had been obsessed with his vow for the Watsons. Which had ended in a disaster… But no. Mycroft would have gotten him out.

“He will always do. He was so brave in that prison, wasn't he?”

“He thinks he’d totally failed… Which is bullshit. It was Eurus’ responsibility. And the people in Sherrinford disobeyed his orders. Nothing of this was his fault.”

“Did you tell him that?” the old lady asked softly.

No. He had not. They didn’t say such things. Well, _he_ didn’t… Mycroft, who had always mocked him for being sentimental (regarding other people), had said some very sentimental things to him not so long ago.

‘ _Your loss would break my heart.’_ Fine, Sherlock had drugged his punch but still… Perhaps he had indeed meant it. Wouldn’t have said it, probably, without the drugs… And Sherlock's reaction had not been that nice… _‘What the_ _ **hell**_ _am I supposed to say to that?’_ Mycroft's outburst of emotion had caught him totally off guard. It hadn't kept him from following his plan though… Ending with shooting a man… He didn’t pity Magnussen. The man had been awful. And how stupid of him to admit that all the evidence was just saved in his brain… He'd really had it coming… But Sherlock had to admit that this whole affair hadn't been his proudest hour…

And then, when the plane had been back, Mycroft had said _, ‘I’ll always be there for you.’_ If this hadn't meant that he would have come to rescue Sherlock if push came to shove, then what should? His reaction had not really been much kinder… And what about pushing Mycroft against the wall, twisting his arm? Now that had been a very nice thing to do…

If he thought about it – Mycroft had every reason to hate him instead of supporting him… And still… He had sounded and looked so happy when Sherlock had told him that he had liked his Lady Bracknell… And in Sherrinford… In this awful last game… There had been a strange closeness between them. Even though Mycroft, the smart one, had seriously believed that Sherlock would kill him. Which of course had not been an option for even a second. Sherlock had seen only one way to deal with this situation – letting Eurus believe she was about to win just to shock her (and everybody else) by pointing the sodding gun at his own head. But Mycroft had been willing to go because he, of course, thought that Sherlock would prefer John over him, and he had accepted his alleged fate.

Did Sherlock really think that Mycroft would turn him away if he asked him if he could stay with him? Of course his brother wouldn't. Did he really want to stay in a flat that was lacking a bloody wall? Or go to John who was… whatever he was now… Sherlock's best friend? Was he? Still? Sherlock knew the answer, and it made him very sad deep inside. “I think… I should ask Mycroft,” he said, surprising himself. Would he even want to live with Mr. Neat? Mr. Control-Freak? They would probably kill each other. No. They would not…

Mrs Hudson patted his arm. “Do that, Sherlock. I can always call you when a client shows up.”

There hadn't been many private clients lately. Besides… Faith Smith… Since John had stopped blogging about the adventures they didn’t really have anymore – and Sherrinford was not the kind of adventure that would have appeared in a public blog even if John had been in the mood to write anything about it – there had hardly been any people seeking for Sherlock's help. Which was fine with him… Money wasn't a problem anymore. The years of being famous had not made him become a millionaire but it was enough to live from it for years. And there was still the trust of Grandma Agatha, to which he would get access when he turned forty. She had obviously believed that at this point, he would have finally grown up and been responsible enough to not waste the money on drugs. Well, his mother had called him the grown-up yesterday. What a joke… Well, at least he had supported Mycroft then. Had it meant anything to his brother? Despite the fact that Sherlock had soothed their parents with promising to go visiting Eurus? Yes, Sherlock assumed. Mycroft had never expected a lot from him. Just to be decent and sober, actually. To be safe… Well, he had not lived up to these expectations very often in his life… And still – Mycroft had never given up on him.

And did he really believe that Mycroft had started any shenanigans with this woman who looked old enough to be his mother – Mycroft, who was clearly a gay man? No, not really. And his brother had not appeared like a man who had a love life recently, if Sherlock thought about it. So possibly Mrs Hudson was right. Maybe his brother did need someone around after this horrible day with its dire consequences. Not _someone_. Him. As miraculous as this was after decades of diet jokes, contempt and rejection...

He drank up his tea and got up. “I’ll get dressed now and then I’ll talk to my brother.” In person, not on the phone. He wanted to see his reaction to his request. Because if Mycroft did not want him to come after all, Sherlock wouldn’t want to intrude. Well, perhaps he had started to grow up after all…

####  The Cabinet Office

Sherlock woke up from a hand that was gently squeezing his shoulder. “Huh?” he mumbled, feeling disoriented and more than a bit dizzy.

“Sorry to wake you, little brother. But your position doesn’t look comfortable at all.”

Sherlock blinked and then looked into Mycroft's pale blue eyes. God. His brother looked like death warmed up. Worse than the day before, when he had been chastised by the parents. No sleep either… There was concern in his eyes and some other emotions that were hard to name.

Had he really fallen asleep on this awful visitor’s chair in his brother’s impersonal office? Apparently yes. He groaned when he moved his head, causing his neck to make noises that didn’t sound healthy at all. A nasty headache had already begun to throb behind his temples. Great…

“Thank you, Anthea,” Mycroft said and Sherlock saw him taking two cups from a tray in his attractive assistant’s hand.

She gave Sherlock a look that was something between amusement and contempt. She had never been overly fond of him. Well, Sherlock couldn’t blame her… He must have caused Mycroft to have rotten moods more often than not, and it was certainly not a pleasure to work for him in this condition. Or… Was it more? Was it Anthea in fact who provided his brother a certain kind of comfort? No. He couldn’t see any signs of a romantic- or sexual relationship in their dealings with each other. She was smart, Mycroft was the smartest, but Sherlock wouldn’t have missed this. She was just very loyal to her boss and therefore she was not Sherlock's biggest fan. If he had any fans at all apart from Mrs Hudson… Probably not.

He took the cup and mumbled a ‘thanks’ before he took a sip of the black coffee. Good. Strong and hot. Exactly what he needed. Carefully, he stretched his legs. Everything seemed to hurt after this nap out of exhaustion.

When he had arrived in Whitehall, he had been asked to wait. He had paced the hallway with its chairs of steel more or less patiently. After a few minutes, Anthea had shown up and had told him that Mycroft was in a meeting.

‘ _Can I wait in his office?’_

She had given him a doubtful look. Attractive she was with her dark mane and her business attire. Strict, too. A no-nonsense woman if Sherlock had ever seen one.

‘ _I swear I won’t rummage through his folders or try to figure out his password,’_ he had promised.

She had sighed and asked him to come in. And she had disappeared without offering him tea or anything else. So Mycroft had asked her to bring the coffee for him. Nice.

“Meetings because of Sherrinford?” Sherlock asked when Mycroft had sat down behind his desk.

“Mostly. There is a huge mess to clean up.”

“I figure. The families of…”

“Yes. They will receive some sort of compensation. But they’ll have to be quiet about the circumstances.”

Sherlock nodded. “You think that will work?”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “It better work. We don’t want Sherrinford to become common knowledge…”

“No, I can imagine. It wasn’t your fault, you know?”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “Well. It’s nice of you to say that. We do know though that…”

“…the governor and his staff disobeyed your orders and deceived you about it.”

Mycroft sighed. “Be that as it may, I should have…”

“Stop it, Mycroft. Stop blaming yourself for everything and excusing the failures of other people who should have known it better.”

Mycroft's lips turned into a sad smile. “And this from you? John and Mary Watson, anyone?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. So his brother knew about John. Who had told him? Well, that was easy. Smith had bragged about the show John had given him towards Lestrade while being interrogated and of course Mycroft had read the interviews. He didn’t even wonder why Mycroft hadn’t said anything. Of course he would have expected Sherlock to excuse John’s behaviour and not resent him for it; his words had just made that very clear. And it was true, wasn’t it? Almost… It wasn’t something Sherlock was willing to discuss with his brother. Or even think about. Ancient history...

Mycroft didn’t miss his reluctance to dwell on this sore subject. He sighed. “You don’t look as if you’d gotten a lot of sleep. Did the baby cry all night?”

Had _he_ done that? Had he driven Mycroft and his parents crazy with it? Probably… But Musgrave had been a huge house. Perhaps Mycroft's room had been far away from his so he hadn’t had to hear him. But… No. He… remembered. Not the time in which he had been a screaming infant, but in his mind’s eye he saw himself, about five years old, crossing the corridor to slip into Mycroft's room. He had slept there. And not just once. Was this a real memory? And why had he forgotten this along with Victor and Eurus?

He shook the thought off. “I slept in my flat.”

“What?” Mycroft leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk – which was completely cleared. There wouldn’t have been any folders to look at, anyway… “You recall that there has been an explosion?”

Sherlock shrugged. “My bed is still intact. But… It was a bit loud and… Well. It’s not ideal.”

“Well, I would suppose so.” Mycroft scrutinised him, looking more awake and alert now. Livelier than Sherlock had seen him for quite a while. But he didn’t ask him why he wasn’t staying with John. And then Sherlock could see how he deduced why Sherlock was here. “Oh.”

“If you don’t want me to move in with you for a week or two, it’s fine. But I thought it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Of course you can. I have two guest rooms. And… Yes?”

There had been a knock at the door that was opening up now. “Sorry, sir. Lady Smallwood wanted to give you something.” Anthea made a face that said, _‘And she refused to leave it with me, this stupid bitch.’_

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle and looked back to his brother quickly enough to see him roll his eyes. So that did answer a certain question. And for some reason, Sherlock felt… relieved? Why would he? It had been stupid to suspect this anyway.

The elderly lady stalked into Mycroft's office. “It’s because of the Pendleton case. I… Oh, Mr Holmes.” She didn’t look very happy to see him.

“Lady Smallwood,” Sherlock greeted her.

She had made an effort, wearing a light pink dress with matching high heels, and the pearls around her neck were clearly no imitations. But she still looked like the woman of more than sixty years that she was and no makeup (and she had put it on generously) could hide that. And why did she want to gain anyway? Mycroft was gay. Everybody could see that. He didn’t even try to hide it. It was in his voice, in his movements… He oozed it. But apparently some women were very good at ignoring that. Sherlock had one of them in his own circle of friends…

But the lady wasn’t a friend. She would have died for being even more, but Mycroft clearly wasn’t that fond of her. _She’s tried it,_ Sherlock thought, watching her talking to his brother. _And he didn’t get it until it was too late and he feels awkward around her now…_

He tried to look indifferent while Mycroft was trying to get rid of the harpy and took out his phone to see if he had missed any texts while he had been sleeping. There were none.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said when his visitor had stalked out of his office again. “Where were we? Oh. Yes. Of course you can stay. Bring everything you need from your flat, or I can send someone to fetch it.”

“I’d rather take care of that myself.” Mycroft's goons rummaging through his belongings? Only over his dead body… “Thank you.”

Mycroft looked… pleased. Not only because he had said two words that had never really come over his lips in dealing with his big brother… But a lot more because he had asked him for help. And wanted to stay with him. He didn’t even suspect any hidden agenda obviously.

Sherrinford had changed something between them. For the better, without a doubt. And Sherlock felt a surprisingly strong need to not mess it up.

Perhaps… because he didn’t have that many people left in his life… But that wasn’t all. He might not have regained all his childhood memories and probably never would. He had suppressed them for too long and too well. Dealing with Eurus had triggered the ones of her and Victor. But Mycroft had always been around and Sherlock had still not recalled how they had shared a bed when he had been little. But he could feel that they had indeed been close. He had even seen it – on the video of his family on the beach that he and John had used to scare Mycroft. They had destroyed it, actually… Just another piece of nastiness in a long queue of awful actions he had taken against a brother who had always had his back. And still Mycroft had immediately agreed at giving him shelter until his flat didn’t resemble a war zone anymore.

“You’re a saint,” slipped out of his mouth before he could help it.

Mycroft stared at him with narrowed eyes, expecting mockery. And then he realised that Sherlock had meant it – the blush on his cheeks had given it away.

A smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft's mouth. “No, Sherlock. Just your big brother,” he said in a voice that Sherlock had never heard from him – gentle and affectionate.

His brother clearly looked forward to having him in his house. And it felt like balm on his soul. Mycroft would have chided him for being sentimental if he had said this out loud. Or wouldn’t he? In any way Mrs Hudson’s suggestion had not been a bad one. At all.

####  St. Bart’s Hospital

Greg forced himself to store his phone neatly in his pocket instead of throwing it onto the ground and crushing it under his shoe. He had just lit a cigarette and pulled greedily at it when he heard steps and turned his head. “Oh, hi Molly.”

“Hello, Greg. Bad news?”

How long had she been watching him? Standing in front of the hospital to catch some sun and have a smoke – and be yelled at? “Call from the ex,” he said laconically.

“Oh.” Molly nodded. “I see.” She was wearing her usual hospital outfit. And she looked thinner than ever. Fragile, even.

“Be glad that you’ve never burdened yourself with this shit – marriage.” Greg regretted his outburst the next moment when he saw Molly bite her thin bottom lip. “Sorry.” It really hadn’t been the most sensitive thing to say. His soon-to-be ex-wife would have rolled her eyes at it. Well, she had always been very good at that...

Molly huffed out an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. Poor Molly never got a guy. Fuck it.”

Greg almost dropped his cigarette and gaped at her.

“What?” she asked in a rather aggressive tone. “You didn’t think I could swear? It’s not ladylike enough for you? Or just not Molly-like?”

What was it with women and their total unpredictability? Why had she jumped at his throat like this? Like Susan had just done… It had been about nothing really. A fucking vase she had told him to find in their house. Which she needed so badly… Greg couldn’t remember having ever seen the damn thing. And now Molly. One wrong word in the wrong tone and she’d exploded.

She waved his confusion away. “Not your fault.” Suddenly she didn’t appear aggressive anymore – rather beaten and depressed. Which was not a bit better…

Why had he even wanted to say hello to her? He had visited a witness in the hospital and thought he should look up how Molly was doing these days. He hadn’t seen her for a while. Now he wished he had waited a bit longer… “Um… How are you?” God. He was so stupid. But what else should he have said? Without any surprise whatsoever, he saw her hackles rise again.

“Why? Because Sherlock Bloody Holmes forced me to tell him I love him? I bet this was a joke between you and him and John all the time!”

Wait, what? What was she talking about? Sherlock had forced her to… What?

She shook her head with the most self-loathing grin he had ever seen. “Yeah. He didn’t tell you. Course not. He probably forgot all about it already…”

It dawned on him. Sherlock would have never done anything like this voluntarily. Someone had forced him to do it. Well, who else but his sister? Greg knew that he wasn’t allowed to mention the woman’s existence to anyone. In the police report they had used another name for her. It was all the most hush-hush. “Um. I don’t think I understand,” he said, lamely. “Why would he do that?”

Molly threw her hands into the air. “He said to protect me. He thought I would be killed if I didn’t say it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Must have been during this… case. Well, why would he lie?”

“I don’t care if he lies! It was awful! But yeah… Everybody knows it’s true anyway. Poor, ugly little Molly loves the beautiful detective. Joke of the century.”

Greg felt as if he was standing on slippery ice. He had gained enough experience with women to know that he would not get out of this unscarred, no matter what he said. Saying nothing at all was not an option, either. It would piss her off just the same. “I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way. Nobody does,” he hurried to add.

“And why not? It’s true,” she spat out. “I’m pathetic. The pathetic pathologist.”

Before he could think about it or school his features, Greg chuckled about the alliteration. He stopped at once when he saw her face. She had not made a joke after all… She was deadly serious… “No, Molls! I’m not laughing about you!”

But of course it was too late. Her face had turned into an almost scary grimace. “Yes you do! You all laugh about me, always did! Remember that Christmas when he deduced my present for him?”

He did. He also remembered that she had looked very pretty in her dress, with the beautiful hair style and the makeup, but he refrained from speaking that out. It wouldn’t have gone down well anyway. “He said sorry. He didn’t know any better.”

“Yes, find excuses for him like you always did. What do you think you are, his daddy? Everybody is always protecting him. Everything is always about bloody Sherlock!” She glowered at him and he made a step back. “And I’m the worst of all! I hate it! I hate you all.” And with this she turned and ran into the building, and he stared at her until she had disappeared, wondering if everybody was going crazy these days.

####  Mycroft's House

Sherlock hung up his coat after setting his travel bag onto the ground and putting the alarm system back in place as Mycroft had asked him to do. It was new. Well, he had needed that after… Sherlock had been here last time… Uninvited. With intentions that had not seemed bad to him but naturally, Mycroft would have disagreed on that.

It had felt like a game – _let’s scare the truth out of my brother by terrifying him with two figures that seem to come out of a nightmare._ And Mycroft's condition had been so satisfying for him – and John. Sherlock had been so upset about Mycroft's lies. Well. That was a strong word. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had ever asked him if they had a sister… Why would he have ever even suspected that? But Mycroft should have told him. At least when they had been scheming against Moriarty! But Sherlock was well aware that Mycroft would know that himself. And as bad as his older brother had looked earlier, he was already blaming himself for a bunch of things. Not necessary to add any more to this list. And it was over anyway. Eurus was secure, hopefully for good this time. Moriarty was dead. Magnussen was dead, too, and Smith was probably still not through with confessing his crimes to Lestrade. Sherlock was rapidly running out of enemies. Like he had run out of friends…

He shook this thought off once more, feeling irritated about himself. It was what it was. Hadn’t that been the motto recently? And it was true. He couldn’t change the past. Everybody had to live with the consequences of their actions. Nothing he would say to Molly would take the embarrassment about this horrible _I-love-you_ -scene in Sherrinford from her – the cold way in which she had replied to his apologetic text had said enough about her state of mind. Nothing could change the fact that she had taken John’s side when they had been estranged after the most colossal slipping of his life. He couldn’t bring Mary back. John couldn’t take his violence back.

They had never spoken about it. Two cracked ribs. Bruises all over his upper body. While he was crossing the silent corridor, the fading sunlight illuminating the ghastly paintings on the walls, he involuntarily put a hand onto his ribcage. The pain was still not entirely gone.

John had been entitled. Sherlock had said it, and he had meant it.

When he sat down in Mycroft's armchair – thick, expensive leather, a dream of comfortableness – he saw himself on this floor, blood running over his face, looking up to a murderer, telling him that he and his staff should let John do what he wanted. For Mary. For Sherlock’s unforgivable failure.

But the wrath he had seen on Lestrade’s face when he had been looking at the doctor whenever they had met afterwards… Or the slight shake of his head that the DI had given him when Sherlock had negated the question if he wanted to press charges against John. The disappointment and anger that had simmered in Mrs Hudson’s eyes when she had put the mug for John onto the table with more force than strictly necessary…

If he looked at the situation with the eyes of his friends, he felt… weird. From their perspective… it had to look weird. As if he was some sort of housewife, taking a beating from an abusive husband. Thinking she didn’t deserve it any better…

It was not a nice image. It was not what he was about. Sherlock let his right hand slide through his curls. He was feeling… strange. Anxious. This house… Had it really been a good idea to come here? What did he want to gain? Mycroft was feeling bad. Did he really think he was the right person to change anything about that? Or did he even expect his brother to take care of the mess he had become? Making everything better, like he had always done – and what a thankless job this had been for his brother...

His hands were shaking, his eyes flickering. His breath was coming in harsh little pants. What was happening to him? A panic attack? He was sober. Clean. Not like when John had thrashed him. He had been high and obsessed with his guilt. He wanted to get high now. What had become of him? A man who talked on and on, ignoring a danger right in front of him, causing a young mother to die. A man who took a beating from his best friend, meekly accepting that blows and kicks met his already suffering body – in order to get punished and punish himself for his failure. A man nobody could respect anymore. It was a miracle that Lestrade still worked with him. And didn't Sherlock, deep inside, even blame the cop for not throwing John into jail at least for a night – after telling him he didn’t want him to prosecute his friend? Illogical. Irrational. Stupid. He was a loser, a horrible failure…

Tears were streaming down his cheeks now. He was sobbing; snot was running out of his nose. His head was throbbing and he felt like throwing up. He slid from the chair onto the floor with the thin carpet, feeling cool under his knees. He retched but nothing came up.

And then a hand was put onto his neck, a warm, soothing hand. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Sherlock turned and hurled himself against the man he had not even heard approaching, the man who immediately closed his arms around him, and he buried his face against a warm neck, crying uncontrollably until the comforting words and the hand that was stroking his back and hair had calmed him down enough so he could get up and settle on the large sofa, and within a minute, he had fallen asleep, slumped against his brother’s solid, reassuring frame, Mycroft's arms still tightly wrapped around him.

*****

Not that long ago, Mycroft had teased Sherlock with having premonitions. ‘Movement of the web’, had been Sherlock's explanation.

What had it been for him? Why had he cancelled a meeting with the minister of foreign affairs, as dull as it would have been, to go home an hour before he had planned? To find Sherlock in this condition – crying, desperate, curled into a ball on the floor… Mycroft had stood frozen on the spot in horror at the sight. But only for a few seconds.

Mycroft had always wanted to be there for his little brother. He had failed him so badly nonetheless. He had left him to himself by going to university. Had failed in keeping contact with him when he had climbed the ladder of power. In the drug days in which that had obviously resulted – due to the lack of intellectual stimulation that would have overcome the boredom – Mycroft had only found him when he had been in a dire condition. Sending Sherlock to rehab had only made it worse. Mycroft had not been there when the cabbie had lured him into taking the pill – John had saved him instead of him. He had missed Mary Watson killing him – Sherlock had fought himself back to life, certainly in order to protect his best friend. If Mycroft had taken care of Magnussen, Sherlock wouldn’t have shot him. Maybe… And where had he been when John had kicked him into a bloody mess and a serial killer had tried to suffocate him?

All in all, he had been a lousy brother, no matter how hard he had tried in his eyes. Whenever he had been needed, he hadn’t been there. And Sherlock had of course cared less and less about him being there the more estranged they had become – there was no doubt about that.

But now he was here. Today he had come and done what Sherlock had, surprisingly enough, not rejected this time – holding him. Comforting him. Mumbling silly words of comfort that had formed themselves. Guiding him to the couch and continuing to hold him until he had fallen asleep.

He had watched him. Those beloved features. Despite sleeping peacefully, Sherlock had looked gaunt and exhausted, his cheekbones more prominent than ever in his almost emaciated face, sticking out like blades, his lips dry and chapped. Sherlock had not used since this unholy Smith episode but Mycroft could still see the results of this arduous adventure.

Why had Sherlock broken down like this? There was only one guess, really. John Watson. Had Sherlock pushed the memories of what the doctor had done to him aside until now? And had he allowed himself to think about them while being at a place that was more or less unfamiliar to him because… he had known that he wouldn’t be alone with the impact? Was that hubris? A sign for insanity after all these years of confrontations and insults?

Mycroft was aware that he was indulging in unfounded theories. Allowed himself a nice daydream about building up a better relationship with Sherlock. Finally. But for the first time in decades, he assumed that they really had the chance to do this, despite everything that had just happened in their lives. It made him feel better than he had been feeling for a long time. And it made him feel humble. He had failed Sherlock so badly – most recently in dealing with Eurus. But maybe Sherlock didn’t mind as much as Mycroft had thought. And if that was true, Mycroft would do all he could to make things better between them. He knew that it could backfire – one wrong word about Sherlock's friends and his brother might flare or even leave. But he had to take that risk. If Sherlock needed him for real, he would not disappoint him – again.

He put the pottage that he had taken out of the freezer and reheated into two bowls and set them onto a tray. It was time for little brother to wake up and eat something. And to be indulged and spoilt by his big brother – if Sherlock was amenable to letting him.


	3. Chapter 3

####  Sherrinford

“That was beautiful, Sherlock. Eurus?”

Sherlock watched his mother smiling shyly at her daughter – locked away behind the glass wall of her cell. Eurus stared at her for a long moment, her expression one of total indifference, before her lips turned into just the hint of a smile.

Father put his hand on Mummy’s shoulder, squeezing it, staring at his daughter with his eyes full of tears.

Sherlock’s eyes met Mycroft's. He had seen that Mummy had taken his brother’s hand while he and Eurus had been playing their duet. Mycroft had looked surprised but pleased. He nodded at Sherlock now, a small smile tugging at his lips.

It had gone down better than either of them had thought possible. Eurus had seen Mycroft for the first time since that night, and she had not shown any kind of hatred for him. In fact, she had given him the same slight smile that Mummy had just received. Mycroft had greeted her calmly, not showing that the events of their last meeting were still bothering him. Which they were, as Sherlock knew very well. They had not addressed the subject but that was hardly necessary.

What had their parents expected? Sherlock wondered. They were seeing her adult daughter for the first time. Had they feared she would scream at them for abandoning her? That she would be a drooling mess or a hair-pulling, eye-rolling harpy – the stereotypes of inhabitants of a lunatic asylum?

Sherlock had told them in the helicopter that she still did not speak. But she had warmed up to him. It was his third visit. They had always played their violins together, watching each other. She had seemed… peaceful. She had lost her game and made her peace with it. Of course she couldn’t be trusted. Sherlock had been eager to make a connection with her (and he assumed it would never go beyond the fragile, superficial bond the music allowed them) but he didn’t wear tinted glasses. She was dangerous. Murderous. She could never be allowed to run free. She had proven very impressively what she was capable of if she wasn’t contained. She might seem resigned and calm now but given the opportunity, her sociopathic instincts would take over again and cause mayhem once more. Probably. Sherlock couldn’t say for sure. He couldn’t really deduce her. She was intimidating, even now. He too would not forget what she had done that day.

But he felt strangely good in her presence, playing Mozart with her. Music had always had this effect on him, and it seemed to have the same on her. Being in Sherrinford was like being in another world. A world where he was big brother. Where nobody expected him to be perfect in anything apart from the music, and he was. Music asked for devotion and accuracy and gave back peace and contemplation. He had always appreciated that, even before Eurus had given him a precious Stradivarius.

Of course he had wondered how Mycroft was feeling about his visits here, which Mycroft had to organise. But his brother had only asked him again to be safe and to let him know if her behaviour indicated anything suspicious or dangerous that the cameras might have missed. Sherlock had assured him that he would be very careful. He had not told him that at one word from him he wouldn’t visit her anymore. It hadn't been necessary. His eyes had told him. But Mycroft had looked at him, seriously, and said that it was fine, and he had meant it.

Now Sherlock bade his sister goodbye, and he smiled when he watched Mummy putting her flat hand onto the glass – and Eurus returning the gesture solemnly. What a weird family they were… But at least they were complete again. And the parents had forgiven Mycroft for allegedly deceiving them about their daughter’s fate.

And when they left for the elevator, Mycroft put his hand onto the small of his back, and Sherlock shuddered, goosebumps covering his skin where it had been touched through the layers of clothing.

He was hyper-aware of his brother’s presence when he was standing next to him in the small lift, their arms pressed against each other. Sherlock heard Mummy chatter and Mycroft and Father answer her, but he heard it only through some strange kind of filter as if he had willingly put them on mute. Which he hadn't. But he was so focused on the physical contact with his brother that there was no room for voices, reducing them to meaningless mumbling.

Something had ever so slowly begun to change between them over the past five days. Something essential. Disturbing. Weird. Unexpected. But not frightening. Something neither of them had mentioned. A bundle of so far unknown emotions that he could see mirrored in Mycroft's eyes had crept up on him.

Exciting. Yes. That’s what it was.

Where would it lead them?

When they were sitting in the helicopter that would bring them back to London, Sherlock next to Mycroft, he placed his hand so his small finger was touching the back of Mycroft's hand _just so_. Mycroft, talking to Father, did not take his hand away.

####  The Landmark

“I… I think I want to go.”

“Oh. That’s what you think, huh? Eat up.”

Emma looked up with her huge eyes. “I… Sorry?” She was pretty with her strawberry-blond mane and her pouty mouth but she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

“Eat up,” John repeated. “I’m paying for your meal so I expect you to eat up before you leave to do God knows what.” Certainly she had not meant she wanted to go to his place. Or hers. Well, at least not with him. With grim satisfaction, he watched her taking another bite of her fish. With her hand shaking…

Why had she even agreed on going out with him, all flirty and appearing to be an easy lay, just to sit around like a mouse in this fine restaurant with the excellent food she had been about to waste, barely saying a word? And what he had done wrong again in her eyes – what? Yes. This place reminded him of the last time he had eaten here, ready to propose to a beautifully looking Mary just to be interrupted by a decidedly not-dead Sherlock… He had told his date about Mary and how it had all gone so terribly wrong. She had said she wanted to know him better, hadn’t she? And of course this meant talking about the nuisance of his life and the best woman he had known – the woman he had lost due to her own recklessness and Sherlock’s carelessness...

Only that he hadn’t really known Mary… When he’d had the chance, he hadn’t looked at the bloody memory stick that contained all her secrets. He didn’t know what had happened to it in the end, after Ajay… Not that it mattered now. She had taken her secrets to the grave. What would he tell Rosie when she was old enough to ask about her mother? What had her grandparents from her mother’s side done for a living? John had no idea. Had Mary had any siblings? He didn’t know. What the fuck had he known at all? And what was he supposed to do with a little daughter who would never get to know her mother? It sucked. His entire life just fucking sucked...

“You… You are scaring me.”

“What?” John stared at the young nurse that worked in his clinic. Then he realised that his hand was cramped around his fork, the knuckles having turned white. And probably his face had not looked very friendly. “Forget it. Had nothing to do with you. Fuck off now. If you don’t want me to put my cock into your filthy little cunt, I have no use for you anyway.”

A sob and the clatter of metal on porcelain when she dropped her cutlery was his answer. The next moment, he was sitting at his table alone. Some other patrons were looking at him, curiously or with faces full of contempt about this scene. John glared at them until they looked away hastily.

Fuckers… John had always been a man who had relied on his own strengths. People came and left. And recently, everybody he had stupidly considered his friend seemed to have left, with the exception of Molly Hooper. Lestrade gave him glances that were frosty to say the least. Mrs Hudson had, without any surprise, taken Sherlock's side, too.

And Sherlock himself… He wasn’t the same man that John had met through Mike Stamford anymore. Who knew what was going on in his mind these days? Ever since he had come back from his fucking fake death, John hadn’t understood him anymore. Well, who understood Sherlock Holmes anyway? But for a long time, John had thought that they were friends. That he could trust Sherlock. But this man who had blathered on, bragging about his intelligence, towards an armed woman who hadn’t had anything to lose – he had been and still was a stranger to him. He hadn’t even asked John to move back in with him. Fine, he wouldn’t have done it anyway. But still. Baker Street had been their home. Their famous address. John had been Sherlock's other half, so to speak. Not in the way the tabloid press had been suggesting, no. But in solving crimes, John had been essential. Or at least Sherlock had let him believe he was. And now? He was hardly invited to join Sherlock in chasing criminals and solving puzzles anymore. And if he was in Baker Street, he felt like an unwelcome bystander. Fuck Sherlock. Fuck Greg. Fuck Mrs Hudson.

Fuck this whole fucking world… He downed the expensive wine he had ordered, followed by Emma’s almost untouched glass, before he searched for his credit card to pay. What a waste of time and money this had been. God… He needed a lay… If he hadn’t had such a public face, he would have picked up a prostitute right now. As it was, his right hand would have to be sufficient…

####  Mycroft's House

Carefully, Mycroft put the plates onto the dining room table. Made sure the glasses didn’t have any stains. He glanced at his watch once more. About ten minutes more he would have to wait. Getting more nervous by the minute.

Was he being silly? He wasn’t waiting for his date after all… He was waiting for his brother to bring dinner from his favourite restaurant after meeting a client in his landlady’s flat and having a look at the progress the workers had made at his own over the past two days since he’d been there.

But it sure as hell felt like a date… And he knew that Sherlock saw it the same way.

It was… frightening. Confusing as hell. But it was the one thing he craved more than anything – Sherlock's love, and he did not mean the brotherly kind.

It had come out of nowhere. Or hadn’t it? In the light of these new emotions that had overrun him, some reactions to Sherlock and his decisions seemed to suggest that this… desire… had been there before, deeply hidden in his unconscious. His strong reaction to John moving in with him. His anger about Sherlock's involvement with Irene Adler – whom his brother had obviously saved above all. John’s words about the person to which the darn coffin in Sherrinford might refer had suggested it. The sight of Sherlock's bare backside in the beginning of that case and how Mycroft hadn’t known where to look. All his deep worry and affection for his brother – had it always been more than brotherly concern? But certainly, there had been nothing of the kind on Sherlock's side, and it was most certainly there now.

Mycroft had not felt anything like this when he had been holding Sherlock on the first day of his staying with him. He had only wanted to give comfort. And yes, he had longed for building up a better relationship with Sherlock so perhaps he had casually touched him more than necessary only for that reason. But the more often their hands had met or he had patted Sherlock's shoulder or, in one case, plucked a hair from his shirt collar, brushing against the tender skin of his neck in the go, the more loaded these touches had felt. It had been a weird and yet pleasant sensation when Sherlock had taken something from him – a plate, a glass – and made contact with his hand in the process.

On the third evening, Sherlock had drifted off to sleep on the couch when they had been watching the news. His head had landed on Mycroft's shoulder, and Mycroft had put his arm around him to stabilize him. And the wish to kiss his pink, uniquely shaped lips had hit him like an electric shock. Of course he had done nothing like that, but then Sherlock had opened his eyes and their expression had convinced Mycroft that his brother was going through the same process of discovering feelings that had nothing to do with them being so closely related.

Of course the fact that they indeed were next of kin made this appear so… unspeakable? Out of the question?

No. Surprisingly enough, it did not. It was unusual. So was Sherlock, and so was he. Wasn’t it almost inevitable for both of them to pick the other one – or stay alone forever?

It was something he was sure neither of them had ever considered. But not every change was a bad thing. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had last felt so good. And Sherlock? His brother’s mood had clearly brightened up since he had moved in with him. When he had arrived at Mycroft's place, he had been a damsel in distress. Now he was Sherlock again, strong and independent and not prone to do anything he didn’t want to do. Certainly he was still troubled by recent and not so recent events but he had regained a clear head again.

If anything actually… happened between them, it would forever have to stay between the two of them. Well… Basically everything that Mycroft did in his life had to be kept a secret. And since when did Sherlock want to make his personal life public knowledge?

Yes – Sherlock’s friends were a factor. Unpredictable, loose-cannon John Watson who had never liked Mycroft. Policeman Gregory Lestrade, the defender of law and order. The mouse of a pathologist that was so stubbornly in love with his brother that she had used this allegedly dire situation in Sherrinford to blackmail a false love-confession out of him. And nosy Mrs Hudson, who thought that Mycroft was some sort of reptile.

None of these people would be allowed to know anything about this development. Never. And once Sherlock's flat was habitable again, his brother would have to move back into it, which would complicate things further.

So Mycroft was well aware that if they really broke the taboo and the law by getting intimate with each other, he would have to make up his mind about a plan B in case it did come out. He would have to face the possibility that he could lose all he had accomplished in his long career for the crown. But this was about _Sherlock_ … And he had always done everything for Sherlock.

But wasn’t he being horribly presumptuous? Yes, he was sure that he hadn’t hallucinated Sherlock feeling for him the same way – but who said that his brother would ever want to act on these feelings in any sexual manner? Mycroft had mocked him with his inexperience regarding sexuality in that godforsaken Adler-case. Perhaps Sherlock was indeed completely asexual. Perhaps the sheer thought of exchanging bodily fluids with him would make him get sick.

But somehow Mycroft was positive that Sherlock wanted things to progress. Wanted to be intimate with him. And he was sure that something would happen tonight. He would never do anything against Sherlock explicit will. But if they were about to take the next step in this most amazing development, he would be, as they said, game.

*****

“I have to say – your friend Angelo can cook.”

Sherlock nodded. “I told you. He’s better at making lasagne than at breaking into houses.” He grinned. “He asked me if the second meal was for my date.” He bit his lip a moment later. Dangerous territory, this. How would his brother react to this clumsy (and unplanned) attempt at making progress?

The air between them had been crackling whenever they had been close to one another. The prickling feeling in Sherlock's neck got stronger each time they touched, accidentally or not. And this felt like a date, definitely. There were no candles on the table, which would have certainly disappointed the Italian, but there was the good porcelain and silvery cutlery and fancy wine and just this special atmosphere. Mycroft had looked appreciatively at Sherlock's new button-down shirt – the colour a brave mixture of petrol and light blue. Matching Sherlock's eyes, the saleswoman had said.

Mycroft’s own beautiful, blue eyes bored into his now. He had to know as well as Sherlock that they had reached a critical point. If he hadn't wanted to pursue whatever was developing between them, all he would have had to do was ignore this comment or just hum and change the subject.

He did not. “What did you answer him?” he asked, his voice soft, but Sherlock didn’t have to put a finger onto his wrist to know that his pulse had sped up.

“I said yes,” Sherlock said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It doesn’t do to argue with the cook.” This had not quite been what he should have said, had it? He had brought the subject up and then he hadn't had the courage to go all the way. But of course he hadn't denied it, either. Neither towards Mycroft nor towards Angelo.

“I see,” Mycroft said, carefully. And then his bloody phone startled them both, its shrill melody signalising a most unwelcome call. Mycroft took it from the table and looked at the display. “Sorry, Sherlock. I need to take this. It’s the PM.”

“Sure. No worries. We can reheat the pasta if he doesn’t stop blathering,” Sherlock offered, and his heart seemed to make a funny movement at the smile and the wink he received from his brother before he answered the call.

Sherlock wondered what Mycroft would say if his phone moaned with one of Irene’s texts. He had to know now that she was still alive, thanks to John giving it away in Sherrinford, and Mycroft wouldn’t have had to be a genius to figure out that Sherlock had something to do with her being rescued instead of decapitated. But he had not mentioned it.

Sherlock had lied when he had told John that he sometimes answered her. He had said it to make him feel better about basically cheating on Mary. While Sherlock was watching Mycroft standing up and walking around while talking to his boss, he suddenly wondered why he felt the need to do this – easing John’s bad conscience. And what had John been thinking at all, flirting with a stranger – Sherlock's manipulative sister or not? Was it normal to indulge in excessive texting, or maybe even sexting, with another woman if your wife had just given birth to your baby? What had his friend said - to whom, actually? Had he really been talking to Mary’s ghost?! Anyway – John had admitted that he had been in contact with the other woman whenever Mary had left to room to take care of Rosie. Great. And then he had kicked away at Sherlock to punish him for taking the love of his life from him…

Ever since that had happened, Sherlock had tried to repress any thought about these events. Especially after this embarrassing panic attack on his first day of staying with Mycroft, he had tried not to think about it at all. But now that he had more distance due to his growing feelings for Mycroft, who would definitely never hurt him, and hardly seeing or talking to John for days on end, it hit him with the same force in which John's fist and foot had attacked him. Whom had John really punished that day? Sherlock for his careless talking that had led to Vivian Norbury firing her gun – there was no denying that. Or rather his own infidelity towards the wife he had allegedly loved so much?

John had kicked and hit their friendship into the ground. And Sherlock still didn’t want to erase him from his life, not just out of the knowledge that he had unwillingly caused John pain – because no matter what he had done or wanted to do with the woman who had been Eurus, he had loved Mary. But also – Sherlock and John had gone through too much together to give up whatever had survived of their friendship. But what kind of chance to get over this did they really have, given all that had happened ever since Sherlock had faked his death and John’s alarming change in character?

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

He hadn't even noticed that Mycroft had finished his call. He had not eaten anything in the meantime, either. His throat felt as if it was closed up and he had slumped in his chair, certainly looking like a beaten man once more. “Yes,” he croaked. “I’m fine. Not hungry anymore.” He could feel Mycroft's concerned look on him but he didn’t meet his eyes. He really didn’t want to break down again. Not now that they had come so close to finally addressing the elephant in the room. But he had spoilt that anyway, hadn't he? Would Mycroft ever want to be with him – this weak shadow of the man he had once been?

“Come, little brother. Let’s get more comfortable. We can eat up later if we feel like it, or store it in the fridge for tomorrow.”

Wasn’t that sweet? A man who was so wealthy (and powerful) didn’t even think of binning their meals. Sherlock had always known that his brother had many admirable character traits (even though for the best part of his life he would have rather bitten off his tongue than admit that) but somehow, this modesty touched him. As well as the sensitive offer to change the scenery to calm him down, certainly by holding him again. Mycroft was a good man. A really, thoroughly good man. And so when Mycroft gently took his arm to help him up as if he was an invalid or a child, he didn’t feel offended by it – not in the least. Instead he smiled at Mycroft, suddenly feeling much better, and reached up to put his right hand onto Mycroft's warm, smoothly shaven cheek – an intimate gesture, much more intimate than the slight touches they had shared before.

Mycroft stiffened for a moment – and a part of Sherlock wondered, deeply ashamed, if Mycroft had expected a slap, not a caress, and would that have been so surprising considering their past? But then Mycroft relaxed into the touch, his lips returning Sherlock's smile, and his eyes got an incredibly soft expression before he slightly moved his head forward, causing Sherlock to instinctively do the same – and then their lips met for a gentle, barely-there and simply astonishing kiss.

*****

He was kissing Sherlock. His little brother. Who had just looked so troubled and broken again – and Mycroft wouldn’t have had to be a genius to figure out whom he had been thinking about. For a moment he had hesitated when Sherlock had touched his face, his expression leaving no doubt whatsoever about what he had in mind. All the other obstacles aside – wouldn’t it be taking advantage of Sherlock's mental condition to dive into the waters of an incestuous relationship? Sherlock needed his support – did he really need his sexual attention? Wasn’t this madness after all? Something Sherlock would regret a minute later, which would destroy their blooming brotherly bond for good?

All this had gone through his mind within two seconds – before he had seen Sherlock's insecurity. Not about the kiss that had been lingering in the air for days now but about Mycroft trusting him. And he did. And he wanted this. So he kissed him, knowing there was no way back from this.

Sherlock tasted of wine and pasta and a hint of toothpaste – and underneath all this there was his brother’s very own, infatuating taste. His lips felt like soft pillows. His tongue, which was cheekily slipping between Mycroft's lips, was strong and forceful; there wasn’t a hint of insecurity in Sherlock's actions now. His arms were wrapped around Mycroft's waist, tightly, almost possessively.

And all hesitation and doubt that might have been left crumbled when Sherlock moaned into his mouth, clinging to him, his kissing getting more urgent. Mycroft's cock rapidly swelled in his trousers, straining against his fly – and its counterpart was hard against Mycroft's groin.

He almost stumbled when Sherlock let him go and he felt alarmed for exactly a second before Sherlock took his hand and dragged him towards the couch. A grin pulled at Mycroft's lips. “So eager, brother mine?” His voice sounded raspy and hoarse, and Sherlock turned to return the grin.

“What do we say about stating the obvious, Mycroft?”

“It’s for the goldfish.” Mycroft let himself drop onto the couch, reaching for Sherlock to pull him in again.

“And there are no goldfish here.”

Because Sherlock would have never kissed a goldfish like he was kissing him again now, his hand buried in Mycroft's fine hair, his thigh straddling his lap – and then Mycroft literally had a lapful of consulting detective, their erections grinding against each other through their layers of clothing, and his hands, obviously possessing a mind of their own, grabbed two sinful globes, kneading them in the rhythm of their frantic kissing.

*****

Sherlock had never kissed anyone like this. He had endured Janine’s pecks with closed lips, feeling nauseous and reluctant at the too-intimate contact with someone he was just using for a higher purpose.

But this… It was pure bliss. Mycroft clearly had some experience in French kissing and Sherlock tried not to be jealous of the previous recipients of his attention. He let Mycroft teach him and like in everything else, Sherlock was a fast learner. Kissing wasn't wet and disgusting and embarrassing like he had always imagined it to be – if he had wasted a thought at something he had been sure he would never end up doing. It was warm and pleasant and Mycroft, tasting of their dinner and tea and himself, applied just the right pressure, and his hands on Sherlock's behind made his groin tingle with want. He could feel Mycroft's cock through both their trousers and underpants, and he got dizzy at the thought of unwrapping the large thing. Because it clearly was very big, bigger than his own member, which didn’t lack in size at all – he had seen enough corpses to be sure he was hung above average, not that he had ever cared about that before.

He pulled back to start fumbling with the buttons of Mycroft's shirt – at least he wasn’t wearing a jacket and a waistcoat in the house.

Mycroft patted his back. “You’re sure we’re not rushing it?”

Sherlock would have expected such a question to be uttered even before. “Yep,” was his answer, and he swallowed when he had deftly opened the first two buttons, revealing a decidedly hairy chest. When had he last seen his brother without a full armour of fancy clothes? Decades ago, he assumed. Certainly he had not known that Mycroft was hairy like a bear. Another pleasant surprise… “So much fur, brother dear.” It made him more… human? Definitely it made him very sexy.

Mycroft had not missed his appreciative tone and expression. “No objections?” he asked nonetheless, sounding flattered and surprised.

“Not one.” Sherlock unceremoniously pulled the shirt out of Mycroft's trousers, revealing the full glory of his upper body. His belly was barely there and Sherlock could even see the hint of ribs. His brother was in great shape. And… “Oh…” His own nipples were rather dark and small and nothing in any way exciting. But Mycroft's, almost hidden beneath the wiry black hair, were big and round and the nubs were standing up, hard under Sherlock's probing fingertip.

Mycroft made a strangled little noise that made the corners of Sherlock's mouth go up.

“Not a word,” Mycroft mumbled, pinching Sherlock's bum, and now Sherlock chuckled, which he knew had been his brother’s goal.

“Meowing like a cat, brother dear? How ever will you sound when I get my hand around your cock?”

“Only one way to find out.” Mycroft seriously blushed at this. “I mean… What are you doing to me?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Or as if he was about to waste their time with doubts and worry about taking advantage of his poor, suffering little brother.

Sherlock wouldn’t have it. “Everything I want to, Mycroft. Like I always did, just nicer.”

“Nice is good.” Mycroft put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and urged him forward, and Sherlock complied with a smile, capturing Mycroft’s mouth, not as sensual as his own but appealingly shaped and soft and delicious, in yet another deep kiss.

Their lip-locking became very heated very quickly again and Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer. He unzipped their trousers simultaneously and let his cock spring free, the tip already sticky. Mycroft mimicked his action and Sherlock gazed down on the large penis he revealed, hard and red and slightly bent against his stomach, his balls huge and heavy, their pale skin almost completely hidden beneath more of the dark fur. Sherlock couldn’t help but reach out and brush his fingertips over the silky skin of the erect prick. He had never touched another man like this – and so far he thought he liked it quite a lot.

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked him, his tone a bit unsure.

“Fishing for compliments?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow, knowing of course that in fact Mycroft was merely concerned that he could be put off by his physique. Why ever he should think that. “You’re hung impressively, very impressively.”

“But…?”

Sherlock smiled. “You heard a ‘but’? Well, maybe that I just wondered how many hairs I’ll have to pluck off my tongue after sucking you.” God… He sounded like a wanton whore. Had he really just been close to having another embarrassing breakdown? And now he was joking about giving blowjobs?

Mycroft seemed to think the same. He stared at Sherlock in awe. “Brother mine…!”

“That’s me.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, you are…”

Of course Sherlock knew what he meant. This wasn’t about to get easy. It was dangerous and would have to be kept a secret from everybody they knew. That he had to move back into Baker Street rather sooner than later wouldn’t make it any easier. But then… He would be living there alone. Mrs Hudson could be quite nosy, yes, but as long as he didn’t appear to be in any kind of trouble, she would hardly bother about him spending his evenings elsewhere. And she went to bed early so she would not notice if he stayed away overnight every few days. And somehow… Somehow he wouldn’t be surprised if it might not even bother her to know the truth. He wouldn’t tell her, oh no. But from all the people he knew, she was the most likely candidate to support an incestuous relationship if it meant that he was happy. That was nothing he wished to discuss with Mycroft though, least of all right now. “I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you like this. I’d be a goldfish and you’d despise me.”

Mycroft looked alarmed and Sherlock cursed his choice of words. “You’re not referring to what I said in Sherrinford, are you? You know I didn’t mean it.”

It would always be there – this memory. All the memories of the bad old times. Every insult, every rejection, every hurtful word. Sherlock couldn’t erase them and neither could Mycroft. They could only go on, living with what had happened. They would have to make their peace with it. “I know. Just as I didn’t mean when I mocked you about the diet you didn’t need. I’m sorry, you know? Sorry for basically everything that happened between us for the past twenty years. More, probably…” As if it was so easy – say sorry and you are forgiven for being a horrible person to someone who only ever wanted your best. But still he wasn’t surprised at all about his brother’s next words.

Mycroft reached out and touched his face. “I don’t need your apologies.”

“What do you need then?”

“You.”

And with this, they kissed again, and as if on cue, their hands found each other’s erect cock, and long fingers were wrapped around them, and they managed to stroke each other to completion without breaking their kiss for a single time, and Sherlock couldn’t remember having ever felt so at ease ever before. He panted and moaned himself through the very first hand job he had ever received until the inevitably sticky end, thinking that his brother’s beautiful hands were just _perfect_ … And it was really just the beginning. There was so much more to discover and Sherlock couldn’t wait to go down that forbidden, highly astonishing road with the one man he knew would always be on his side – and who would soon have his back in more than the figurative way.


	4. Chapter 4

####  Sherlock And Greg In Hyde Park

“Any ideas?”

Sherlock tilted his head, looking at the man who had been providing him with cases to solve for so many years. Who had trusted him with police internals and had invited him to crime scenes. Who had never ceased trying to make him a better man. And who had turned a blind eye to John’s violence against him because Sherlock had asked him to do it.

Lestrade looked bad. His short hair was tousled. He hadn’t bothered with shaving this morning. His shirt collar was greasy and the shirt didn’t match the colour of his suit. Too many sleepless nights in a row. Finally separated from his wife for good. The divorce papers were ready to be signed. But it went deeper than that. His entire appearance showed a man fed up with his life in general.

Greg didn’t miss his scrutiny. “The case, Sherlock?” he said in his soft voice.

His huge dark eyes were looking sad. More than that. Resigned. But Lestrade had eyed him closely when Sherlock had arrived. And what he had seen had surprised him for a moment before there had been a miniscule nod of his head. He had made a deduction for a change. A wrong one, but Sherlock had not corrected him. He had focused on the body, which had been found under a bush in Hyde Park. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, butterflies were gracefully hopping from one flower to the other, bees were busy collecting nectar, the birds were singing… and a dead woman was lying on her back with her eyes staring up into the sun while a red scarf was tied firmly around her neck.

Sherlock nodded now. “You will find her murderer among her colleagues. She was recently promoted. Her clothing, see…”

The policeman didn’t seem to find anything interesting about the woman’s clearly new and not quite fitting business dress but he nodded. “A colleague, right. Someone who was jealous of her.”

“Exactly. The bracelet she is wearing looks new. A present from the people she’d previously worked with?” It was a long shot but usually he was right about them. She had been single; he was sure about it, so it hadn't been a gift from her boyfriend. It also looked too cheap for that. But still she had chosen to wear it so she had liked the person(s) who had given it to her. “Her murderer did not give any money or was at least reluctant to do so. And he or she had been in the company for way longer and had been convinced it was their turn to get her new job.”

Greg gave him a grateful look. “That’s definitely something to work with. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“You… look better. Where is he, by the way? Had to work?”

“Who?” As if he didn’t know…

“Come on. You look happy, Sherlock. And who else but he could be the reason? Will he move back in with you then?”

“You know – perhaps you should leave the deductions to me.”

Greg looked taken aback. He gestured for Sherlock to walk a few steps with him. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. Sherlock shook his head when he offered the package to him. He didn’t smoke anymore. Probably Mycroft would have his guts for garters if he started again. Mycroft… To his chagrin, he felt a smile tugging at his mouth at just thinking about his brother. As if it wasn't bad enough to have become horribly sentimental – even though of course it wasn't bad at all, just totally foreign – grinning like a fool in love when he was with anyone he knew was a truly bad idea. Hell, Lestrade had realised that his mood had greatly improved even though Sherlock had thought he had been appearing totally cool – he had only ‘blamed’ it on the wrong man… And Sherlock could neither correct him nor let him go on believing that it was because of John… Tricky… But that was just how his life had become in yet another way, and he wasn't even complaining. Who would complain about being in love with the smartest man in England, possibly the whole world? Mycroft was just… awesome…

“So… It's not John?”

Sherlock sighed. “I did text him when you'd called me but you were right – he has to work.” And John's answer hadn't sounded overly friendly. Given the lack of contact they'd been having recently, that had hardly come as a surprise. “I haven't seen him for more than a week. Since Sherrinford, to be precise.”

“Oh.” Lestrade shrugged and rubbed his face with his right hand. “I feel so… bad about having let him get away with it, Sherlock. You know what I’m talking about. What if he does it again?”

“If we never meet again, he'll hardly have any reason,” Sherlock retorted dryly.

“Ah, come on. You know that's not gonna happen. He will come back in one way or another. And then?”

“I'm not his punching bag, Lestrade. You behave as if he'd done nothing but hit me. He saved my life in the end in case you forgot. He saved my sorry arse many times, to be precise.” God. Why was he defending John so vigorously, causing the DI who had always supported him to bite his lips, looking hurt?

“I know, Sherlock. But I also know that he has problems. It's not normal to be so angry all the time. I should have reported him in the very least.”

“Then he might have lost Rosie. And that would have killed him.” If he had believed in any sort of afterlife, he would have added that Mary would have struck him with lightning then…

Greg made a step towards him. “You think she's safe with him? Be honest, please.”

Sherlock grew cold. Would John ever hit his daughter? No. Rosie was his one and only. “I'm sure, Lestrade. He will never hurt her.” He didn’t even want to imagine being wrong about this. He would never really forgive himself for having caused Mary's death. But if anything happened to this little girl… But John wasn’t like that. He had a foul temper at times but he wouldn’t hurt a woman or a child. Least of all his own child. Sherlock had seen him around Rosie often enough. A really good dad, that’s what he was. “She's off limits. Hell, he was so angry about Mary when he found out about her lies and that she’d shot me and he did nothing to her.”

“Well, I guess that's right. She wouldn’t have let him do that.”

Suddenly Sherlock felt a rush of anger. “In opposite to me, you mean? You think I'm a weakling who likes being hit and kicked?”

“No, Sherlock, I'm sorry. God, I…”

Sherlock saw, terrified, that the usually so calm DI was close to losing it. “Don't be. You're worried. I get that. But we're okay, John and me. No hard feelings.” Did he really believe that himself? To some extent, yes. He and John and Mycroft had gone through the horrors of Sherrinford, and John had been very decent there. Brave and decent. He had been the friend Sherlock had adored for so long. The foundation of their friendship had been damaged though – it would never be the same again. But he did not believe that John was just waiting for him to make a false move so he could attack him again. “Don't worry about me.”

Greg managed a smile. “Okay. Seems it's not necessary right now. It has nothing to do with John then. So…”

“Oh, for God's sake, I've just recovered from all this… trouble. And if you must know – I've been staying with my brother for a few days. Since my flat was damaged quite a bit by my dear sister.” He had visited Eurus again the day before. No progress. But also no steps back. It was what it was…

“Wow. Never thought you’d let him help you.” Greg sounded seriously impressed.

If he knew in which way Mycroft had been helping him lately, he would probably be rather appalled… But in case Mrs Hudson told him, it had been better to tell him about his living arrangements. “Well, I thought it's time to bury the hatchet. He's okay.” Sherlock made sure to not show that silly grin again.

“Never thought I'd live to see that – the Holmes brothers becoming friends.” Greg looked decidedly pleased.

Friends, yes… That and a bit more… They had not gone any further so far. A bit of groping, lots of kissing, lending each other a hand if the snogging had become too heated to just get up and eat dinner. Sherlock knew that Mycroft had been worried that they had done too much too soon. He had assured him that it was absolutely fine but he had contained himself so Mycroft wouldn’t feel guilty. But soon… Very soon…

“I wouldn’t say ‘friends’,” Sherlock said with a shake of his head. “But he can bear having me around when he comes home from work and it's cheaper than going into a hotel.”

“Always the pragmatic one. I should have offered you to stay with me. But my new bachelor’s flat is not exactly big.”

Sherlock felt touched. “Thanks but it's okay, really. The advantages of having a brother with a huge house that's too empty anyway.” He clapped his hands together. “Well, I guess I'll leave you to take care of the case. If you need any more help, you know how to reach me.”

Lestrade smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock. I owe you.”

“Much more than you can ever pay back.” Sherlock winked at him. “Bye for now, Lestrade.

“You know… It was quite nice – this one time you remembered my first name…”

After Sherrinford, yes. “Never mind, _Greg_. I won't forget it again.” With this Sherlock waved the pleased-grinning policeman goodbye and proceeded to leave the park. It was time to do some grocery shopping and go back home to wait for his brand new lover to come home from work.

####  Mycroft's House

“Lady Smallwood remarked that I was looking happy today,” Mycroft said darkly when he sat down at the table. A plate full of rice and grilled vegetables was placed in the middle of the table.

“I bet she wasn’t pleased…”

“Not at all…” Mycroft provided Sherlock with a helping of the dinner he had prepared for them to Mycroft's utter surprise. Sherlock had tested it and had decided it was edible. Cooking was pretty relaxing, he had to admit.

Sherlock grinned. “Bet she would love to be the reason for your happiness, brother.”

“I’d rather eat this fork than touch her.” Mycroft shuddered.

“Ah, that reminds me of the exciting case of the metal-swallower,” Sherlock said, dreamily.

Mycroft chuckled. “You should consider writing your autobiography, brother mine. You’d have so much to tell.”

Sherlock gave him a rather sad smile. “Oh yes. But most of it would be pretty unpleasant. I would have to ignore Magnussen. The drugs… All the secret cases… And the only really good thing my life could not appear in it, either.”

Mycroft reached out to touch his hand, obviously regretting his humorous suggestion. “And what would that good thing be?”

“My secret affair with my landlady of course.”

Mycroft burst out laughing. “Oh dear. Bet the public would love to hear the juicy details about that.”

“Quite literally,” deadpanned Sherlock, and Mycroft groaned.

“We’re about to _eat_!”

“Sorry, brother mine. But if you don’t know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me, then you are a hopeless case.”

Mycroft’s smile was rueful. “It’s just still hard to believe.”

Sherlock nodded. “Ask _me._ But perhaps it would get easier if we were really nice to each other after dinner. Really, really nice.” He took a bite from the spicy food.

“Ah. Good idea. What exactly would you suggest?”

“Dessert…”

“Oh. I see.” Mycroft nodded. “Well… If you’re sure you’re ready for this?”

“Eat up, man, and I’ll show you.” Sherlock grinned when his brother laughed again. He could definitely get used to this sound and to these stunning blue eyes brightening up like this. It was so much better than seeing the look of hurt and disappointment on Mycroft's face. In fact, Sherlock was determined to never give him a reason to look like that ever again.

*****

Mycroft had been granted the privilege of seeing his brother’s naked body for a few times now, and still he didn’t get over its beauty. Or the unmissable proofs of its vulnerability… Sherlock was all plane muscles and hairless skin, so different from his own, but the scar on his chest made his throat constrict. So close. It had been so close… And he had not gotten it. Mary Watson. He had missed all the clues. A former assassin near his brother.

When he had found out that she had been the one who had shot his brother, Sherlock had very obviously already forgiven her. Why? Mycroft would never understand. He hadn’t asked Sherlock, either, assuming that he didn’t know it himself. Still he wished he had reacted accordingly, sparing Sherlock to be on the receiving end of Doctor Watson’s fists and feet because of that horrible woman. And of course he should have taken care of John, too. And perhaps he would have, had he noticed the man’s knuckles when he had arrived in Baker Street right after manhandling Sherlock. Stupid. He had been so stupid. Instead of searching Sherlock's flat, he should have had a close look at his so-called best friend… If he had seen that…

...he would have lost Sherlock. Because if he had taken John out right there and then, who would have come to his brother’s aid? John had saved him like the obnoxious Mrs Watson had demanded from her early grave. Not early enough as far as he was concerned… But anyway. Sherlock wouldn’t have been in this sore condition without John – yes, he had suffered from the drug abuse but he would have probably been able to defend himself against the little old man Smith if he had even been in this hospital without John’s attack to begin with. But without John wading in, he would have died at the murderer’s hands… It had been such a close call and Sherlock had even planned it to be… Everything to save his friendship with a man who didn’t deserve it but whom he still had to thank for saving his life in the very last moment.

It had all been just a horrible mess. Sherlock had suffered so much since he had allegedly died to save his friends from Moriarty’s posthumous revenge. The shot wound was not the only scar that would always remember him of that time after all. His back was covered by the remains of the nasty whipping he had received right in front of Mycroft's eyes. And no, Mycroft had most certainly not enjoyed watching that but he had known he couldn’t interfere without risking both of their lives. Sherlock had done all this, had played a dangerous game with Jim Moriarty and had hurled himself into dismantling the criminal’s network, losing two years of his life, to protect John, and the doctor had thanked him for that by hurting him…

His little brother had been suffering for years, for one Watson or the other, and Mycroft had not done anything to help him because he had known that Sherlock wouldn’t want it.

It hurt. Perhaps it hurt even more now that he was allowed to touch his brother’s beautiful, manhandled body.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock's voice was merely a whisper. His hand reached out to gently cup his cheek. “It is what it is. I can’t change it anymore.”

“Promise me, Sherlock…”

“I promise.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Promise that you will never let anyone hurt you again. I know you have a dangerous job and you can be harmed while solving a case. But that’s not the same as being beaten up by your so-called best friend or shot by his wife.”

Sherlock smiled. “So it’s okay if I catch a bullet if it only comes from a stranger’s gun?”

“Sherlock…”

“Sorry, brother mine. I promise. I’ll be more careful in every part of my life. And now please stop thinking for at least half an hour.”

Mycroft was well aware that this promise was built on sand. Sherlock had too much of a weak spot for John Watson to erase him from his life, which would be the only way to be sure that the man wouldn’t harm him again. And Sherlock's job could cause him harm anytime – and ironically, if he didn’t take John with him anymore if he chased a killer, he would be much more in danger to be hurt by someone else than the doctor. But it had to do for now. So he tried to keep his tone light when he asked, “You’re sure you’re going to last thirty minutes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but it looked decidedly fond. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And so he did.

*****

Sherlock had always despised people for succumbing to their transport’s annoying needs. Sex had been a waste of time, kissing had been ridiculous and romantic love had not existed.

And now? Now he was clinging to his lover, not getting enough of his taste and warmth and closeness. They were lying on Mycroft's comfortable, king size bed, both stark naked and aroused. His hands were frantically sliding over Mycroft's back, massaging his neck with his fingertips. Sitting all day had made his shoulders tense and hard, and while they were plundering each other's mouth, Sherlock did his best to loosen up the certainly achy muscles.

Eventually, Mycroft pulled back. “A massage therapist as well? You’ve been full of surprises lately, little brother.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’m a man of countless talents.”

“I have no doubt.” Mycroft cupped his face with both hands. “Would you be okay with me having dessert first?”

Sherlock's throat got dry. He managed a nod before he croaked, “Very much. Teach me how to do it.” He hated the image that involuntarily popped up in his mind – Mycroft giving oral pleasures to a faceless man. A man that hadn't been him. It was frankly ridiculous to be jealous of a long-forgotten lover, especially as they had discovered their unbrotherly feelings for each other merely days ago. But he couldn’t help it – he would have liked to pummel anyone who had laid his dirty fingers on his brother, even if it had been twenty-five years ago.

Mycroft deduced his feelings with obvious ease and stared at him in wonder. He apparently thought that he was the lucky one of the two of them but Sherlock couldn’t say why. He didn’t think he was exactly ugly. He was tall and fit and he had acceptable eyes, a full mouth and his cheekbones had been the subject of quite a few lousy articles in the tabloid press. But he also knew that his features were unusual to say the least. He was hardly a classical beauty. And Mycroft was even taller, in great shape and he had very a interesting face and lots of charisma. His pert little arse was a sight and his legs seemed to not end at all. Let alone his large appendage… And now he wanted to take care of Sherlock's… He didn’t mind at all. And then he would return the favour and do it better than anyone had ever done it for him.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Do start if you like. Teach me how to do it. But I insist on doing it right afterwards. And… if I give you the best blowjob of your life, will you delete every memory of the men you touched before me?” He blushed when he realised how needy and clingy he just had to have come across.

But Mycroft looked nothing short of stunned. “No,” he said though after a moment of processing Sherlock's request.

“No?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I can't delete what I've forgotten ages ago.” Mycroft touched his cheek, his thumb stroking over Sherlock's smiling lips. “They didn’t count. You know what I think of the goldfish. I thought I'd stay alone forever as I couldn’t bear them.”

“And now you've got a koi,” Sherlock said, cheekily, and Mycroft laughed out loud.

“Yes. My precious, slimy, slick koi.”

“I'll give you slimy!” Sherlock protested, his heart feeling so much lighter.

“No. You'll give me your penis, Sherlock.”

“Cheeky.” Sherlock disentangled himself from him and lay down on his back, pointing down to his groin. “There it is. Make good use of it.”

“I do plan to.” And with this, Mycroft repositioned himself on the mattress as well and bent down to the object in question, and as soon as his long, pink tongue lapped at Sherlock’s thick knob, Sherlock knew that he would absolutely love it.

*****

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would deduce that he had never done this before. He'd had it done to him, yes. A long time ago, before he had decided that it was not worth all the effort. It had been pleasurable of course but he had hated the preliminaries – going out, even courting someone to some extent even though he hadn't cared about any of them in any personal way. He hadn't felt comfortable around the men he had been with – each of them only for exactly one evening, and never in his own house. He had not even given them his real name. Not just because he might have been a tad paranoid about becoming a target of blackmail – even though it had hardly been forbidden to have sex with a consenting adult man even back then. He simply hadn't wanted this to be personal, so he had always introduced himself as ‘Mike’.

And he had never felt the urge to return this certain favour, nor had he ever bottomed for any of the men. But with Sherlock, he was willing to try it all. His brother was even less experienced than he was – not at all, actually – so it was improbable that he had any kinks he might want to experiment with. But since this was Sherlock, who had such a penchant for doing experiments of all kinds, Mycroft wouldn’t have been surprised if he did some research and found some things out of the ordinary that he would love to try. And Mycroft would do it. Whatever it was.

Within the reasonable limits of course – Mycroft didn’t want them to inflict serious pain to one another, there would be no public sex or any involvement of another person, and not just for safety- and discretion reasons. He wouldn’t share Sherlock with anyone – but considering Sherlock's obvious and very flattering jealousy of Mycroft's previous ‘partners’, he would certainly never suggest that anyway. They would have to limit their couplings to the safety of Mycroft's home. He didn’t have any direct neighbours, his house was surrounded by trees and thick bushes and it was as safe as it could be. They could be lovers in this restricted area and they would make the best of it. And they were only just about to begin, and even though it still felt a bit too soon, he couldn’t have said he didn’t want it as much as Sherlock obviously did.

And so he took him into his mouth as deep as he dared and carefully started to suck. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock bending his head back in pleasure, so he was apparently doing it right. The taste was weird as it had been to be expected. Wild and musky, sweet and salty, earthy and bitter – it was an attack on his taste buds that he would certainly never forget. He had always been a connoisseur. The best wine, excellent food… He loved to try out new meals and beverages. And he loved Sherlock's unique taste. Better than chocolate or caviar, better than the best whiskey he had ever drunk. Because this was Sherlock, and he loved him. He had always loved him, from the day he'd been born, and now this love was all-encompassing. Sherlock had always been and would always be his brother, but over the course of the last eight days, he had become his friend and then his lover.

And Sherlock could have certainly made a more appealing choice in the looks department, but he would have never found anyone who would love him more than Mycroft did, anyone who would be willing to do more for him and protect and support him until the very end. And break the law by giving him pleasures that were as taboo and shocking as they could get, and right now, Mycroft couldn’t have cared less. He loved doing this, loved having Sherlock's thick, long prick sliding in and out of his mouth, loved teasing his leaking slit and experimentally swirling his tongue around the engorged head. He enjoyed even the indecent noises he was producing, didn’t mind the spit dripping from his mouth and the slight pain in the corners of his mouth. He loved hearing Sherlock moan and stammer incoherent words – and he loved the moment Sherlock pulsed over his tongue, making him gag for just a moment before he proceeded to milk him dry and drink every precious drop of the proof of Sherlock's desire for him before he carefully licked him clean. And when Sherlock slumped into the pillows, suddenly boneless and sated, he felt more than a bit of pride for being the reason for his brother feeling decidedly good.

“Give me just a minute,” Sherlock mumbled, putting his arm over his face, grabbing his spent and shrivelling cock with the other hand, and Mycroft smiled.

“Take your time. And if you really want to return the favour, which is totally up to you, you can do it later or tomorrow if you…”

“No. Bloody. Way.”

Mycroft chuckled and lay down next to him, patting his rapidly moving chest. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” The detective sounded adorably sleepy now.

“It was my first time.”

Sherlock's eyes opened up in surprise. Then he groaned. “Must you be so damned perfect, Mycroft?”

“I actually do think so, yes,” Mycroft said, winking, and he chuckled again when he received a well-deserved slap on his arse and a fierce glare for that.

And his heart was filled with love and adoration when he saw Sherlock drifting off to sleep as he had expected. He gently kissed his brother's temple and covered him with the blanket. Sherlock would chide him tomorrow for letting him sleep so he couldn’t practice his blowjob abilities, but Mycroft knew that he needed rest and never got enough of it, and he frankly loved to watch his beautiful little brother sleep as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

####  221B Baker Street

“Everything is ready for you.”

Sherlock nodded. His living room almost looked as if the explosion had never happened – only much neater. The carpet was a copy of the old one. So was the wallpaper. He would have to shoot it again and the smiley had to be sprayed around the bullet holes. The kitchen had been rebuilt, too. With a brand new table, free of any Petri dishes and microscopes, but if he had been inclined to narrow his eyes just a bit, he could have imagined them being there.

It just felt weird. As if he had travelled back in time – a neater, tidy time without pain and disappointment, a bright future lying ahead.

It would never be like this again. And so much had changed in his life since his flat had been blown up. He had met his sister – and what a nice meeting that had been – and after all the horrors through which she had put him and John and Mycroft, he had made at least some kind of connection with her. And then… Then he had met his brother in a totally new and astonishing way. Would it have ever happened without Sherrinford? Certainly not without this explosion. He wondered if Eurus could see the changes in his life on his face. Probably yes. She had deduced that he’d had sex when he had first met her. Well, not with another person at this time… If she ever spoke again, would she confront him with her deductions? Every conversation would be recorded. But he didn’t really worry about that. She could have never proven it. And everybody who knew him and Mycroft would just laugh at that.

Everybody except for Mrs Hudson. When he had arrived, she had looked at him, taken aback for a moment before a smile had been spreading on her face at how much he was probably oozing happiness, no matter how hard he tried not to let anything show after the experience with Lestrade (who wouldn’t have come to the right conclusion in a hundred years). She had put her hand on his arm and squeezed it, sparing him any comment that stated the obvious. It had really not been necessary. He had, cursing himself, blushed and stepped from one foot to the other, feeling embarrassed to the core. He would have to tell Mycroft about it, assuming that his brother wouldn’t be very surprised. Old ladies knew plenty of things they weren’t supposed to know. And his landlady was a particularly cunning specimen…

Sherlock didn’t suppose that Mrs Hudson had planned these developments to happen when she had suggested for him to move in with Mycroft. She had wanted him to be with someone who cared about him – and sleep in a bed that would definitely not fall crushing through the potentially damaged floor into her flat… She had understood how much Mycroft cared for him underneath his cool demeanour. And hadn’t she even said something like this when Sherlock had just returned from his mission? Still she hadn’t seemed to like his brother much better than before his fake death until the explosion. Mycroft was not an easy man to take to. Most people had to think that he was cold and calculating and merciless. And they would have been right. And Sherlock felt no little pride that he was allowed to see an entirely different side of his gorgeous big brother.

“It looks good, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” But something was missing. There was his chair – which he had insisted on keeping even though it had seen better days. A new client’s chair. A new couch. But… “We’ll need a new chair for John,” he said softly, turning to her.

She gave him a long look. “Do we?”

Sherlock sighed and urged her to walk over to the couch and sit down with him. “We can’t just give him up. He’s gone through a lot.”

“He hurt you, Sherlock. How can you forgive him for hurting you?”

Sherlock adored the old lady and he owed her a lot. But he was sick and tired of this subject. Of having to defend John.

_Because deep inside you know he doesn’t deserve it?_

Sherlock winced at this cruel inner voice. How had it sounded? Yes. Like a mixture of Mycroft and Greg. He shook his head as if to shush it away. “He was not himself when he did that.”

“But he did it before… When you came back. It wasn’t as bad back then but still… He should have been happy that you were still alive.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “He was. But he was also very angry that I’d let him believe I was dead for two years.” Mary had been on his side. Had, probably very discreetly, tried to make John forgive him. Which he had never forgotten… He had liked her a lot, if she had lied a lot or not. And then… she had died and he had caused it…

God, it hurt. The memories. Thinking of the condition of his and John’s friendship now… He would have to make it better. Show John that he didn’t resent him for anything.

_Don’t you? And what will Mycroft think about it?_

Sherlock shook his head vehemently now. He couldn’t bear this. He had been so happy and now…

“Sherlock! My poor boy! I’m so sorry.” Mrs Hudson had to stretch her upper body wide to be able to embrace him, but she managed to do it.

Sherlock was desperately trying not to break down again. Everything would be all right eventually. John would be okay and they would be friends again. After all he and the doctor had been through, he had to believe that there was still a chance for… For what? Turning back time? They might have made his flat look better than it ever had before. But nobody would be able to snap their fingers and make all the hurt and the loss undone. He knew that and it made him feel sore and sad. “We need a chair for him,” was all he could bring out.

“Of course, Sherlock. I’ll take care of it.” But she sounded sad and worried, and Sherlock could hardly meet her gaze.

####  Molly’s House

“Her milk… Teddy… Pillow…”

Molly took everything from John’s hand. It would have been easier to go to his place to babysit Rosie instead of John bringing everything over for just a few hours but it didn’t take Sherlock's mind to figure out why he had opted for bringing Rosie to her. The doctor was dressed nicely – he was not wearing his usual jumper but a white shirt. Black jeans. His hair was styled more than usual. John had a date, and he hoped to bring the woman home… And the last thing he would need then was embittered old spinster Molly Hooper sitting on his couch…

“Thanks for helping me out, Molly.”

John seemed to be in a really good mood. Well, why not… He was looking forward to a pleasant evening…

Molly shrugged. “Sure.” She looked down on the carrycot with the sleeping baby. “You know I like to have her around.” She’d never get any closer to having a child after all.

“Well then, I think I should…” John grimaced when his phone chirped in his pocket. “Excuse me.” He pulled it out and looked at the display, his brow furrowing when he took the call. “Yes, Steph?… What?… Great… Yeah, I know… Bye.” He pressed his lips together when he fumbled with the smartphone. “So much for this…”

Oh. So his date had told him she couldn’t attend… “So…”

“Yeah. Free like a bird tonight. Guess we’ll be going then, my girl and me.” John’s good mood had disappeared completely. His voice sounded dark, the suppressed anger hard to miss even though he tried to appear untouched.

Well, who liked to be stood up? Molly couldn’t count how often that had happened to her… Back then, when she had still bothered to try and find someone who wasn’t a total arsehole. Or an asexual consulting detective. Or a murderous criminal… “If you want… I mean… Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Molly offered. “I could prepare some sandwiches, if that’s okay with you.”

John’s face lightened up. He tilted his head. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”

“I’ve got wine, too.”

“Wine is fine, as they say,” smirked John.

Molly didn’t have much food at home but she sure as hell had a lot of wine. Red wine, white wine… She had murdered quite a few bottles recently… She would have to work rather early in the morning but that would be okay. She didn’t plan to get pissed after all.

*****

“You sho shweet, Molly. Molls. Moll-Moll.” John’s breath was hot against her face. “What… What wouldda do… wishout you?”

Her head felt dizzy. Very dizzy. She could hardly keep her eyes open. She blinked rapidly, seeing John’s face close against hers. His arm was tightly wrapped around her shoulders. He was strong. All muscles and stockiness. The smell of wine that escaped his mouth was overwhelming. He had drunk more than she had. And she’d had a lot…

They had killed the first bottle over their rather frugal dinner. John had told her about some exciting cases he had solved with Sherlock. About Mary and what a great mother she had been.

She had listened and watched him, wishing that he was Sherlock instead… But Sherlock would never have dinner with her. If she just remembered how she had claimed that Sherlock would have gone to her place to hide after leaving the hospital after getting shot… As if… He had never been in her house. And he would never come, except if he needed her to do something really urgent for him… Still he would probably just text her to head over to wherever he was, and she would immediately come – the silly goose that she was…

And so she had been listening to John’s tirades about how badly life had treated him ever since Sherlock had faked his death while Rosie had been peacefully sleeping on her bed.

Feeling a bit tipsy but needing more, she had fetched another bottle of rather cheap wine. John had heartily approved and opened it up, and they had emptied it, too.

And somehow, they had ended up on her couch instead of the two armchairs they had occupied before, and now John was closer to her than he’d ever been.

“Preshous Molls. My shaviour.” And then John’s thin lips pressed on her equally thin mouth, and his warm, strong hand rubbed her flat chest, poking at her nipples through her blouse, while his tongue was slipping into her mouth.

When had she last been with a man like this? Yeah. Since she had been engaged… Now that had been a great idea… Just because a man styled his hair like Sherlock and wore a scarf like Sherlock didn't mean he _was_ Sherlock. Far from it. He had been an idiot and she had been happy to get rid of him. But God… She needed this… Her lap was burning and when he tweaked one of her nipples through the fabric of her clothing, a moan escaped her mouth.

“Yeah…” John nibbled at her chin, leaving a trace of spit on her face. He pulled back to unbutton her blouse deftly.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need one… Ever since she had hit puberty and all her classmates had developed boobs, she had been ashamed of her flat chest.

Sherlock had mocked her with it. Insensitive bastard… God, why did she have to love _him_ of all men?

“Sh’lock dunno what he’s mishing,” John mumbled, and then his lips closed around her nipple and he sucked it.

She whimpered in a mixture of pain and pleasure – he was not exactly tender. But who gave a fuck for tender? She fumbled with his shirt, and he let her nipple plop out of his mouth to shed it within five seconds. His chest was covered with light brown hair and he didn't have an ounce of fat on his upper body. He let her pat his abs for a moment before he opened his jeans and rummaged in it until his short, hard cock jumped out of it. It was thick and moist at the tip. John grabbed her hand and put it on his reddened member, and she could smell his musky flavour.

A moment later she found herself on her back and John freed her of her own jeans and panty, and then a thick finger bored into her damp vagina.

Damn, this was… She moaned and still wanted to push him away. And then he lowered his head, spread her lips and started to lick her. If she had just shaved her pussy before, she thought vaguely… But he didn't seem to mind the bit of hair. His tongue was strong and firm and he sucked at her clit while still fingering her, making her cry out loud.

And then he was all over her, his cock pushing against her throbbing genital, sliding in without any further preliminaries.

“No,” she mumbled. She had never had sex with a man so quickly. And never without protection… How had this even happened? She felt a bit sick now from the alcohol and her vision was blurry. She felt like fainting under the weight of the strong, male body that was covering her. She smelled his deodorant, a hint of sweat, and his chin was scratching her face even though he had shaved his stubble off before he had come to her.

He had her in an iron grip – and started to fuck her with abandon, his hips pumping like a clockwork.

It hurt and it felt great. She felt so full and it had been so long since this had happened. Whimpering, not knowing if she was telling him to stop or to go on, she dug her fingernails into his back and slung her legs around his waist while he was hammering into her harder than any man had ever done before. She longed to reach down and stimulate her clitoris as the friction of his groin against it wasn't enough, but there was no way to get a hand between her and John’s body. And then _he_ reached down and rubbed her, finding just the right spot at once, and she came after mere seconds, screaming, and then she could feel his semen erupt in her. When he collapsed on her, their heads banged together and they slumped onto the couch, both groaning, and then everything around her turned into peaceful darkness.

####  St. Bart’s Hospital – The Morgue

“Morning, Doctor Hooper. Here’s the sample you… Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Fine. I’m fine. Just put onto the desk, Martin. Thanks.” _Go… Just go…_

“I could bring you…”

“No, thanks. I have everything I need.” That must have been the stupidest, most obvious lie she had ever told anyone, and she didn’t really think that her kind, gangly assistant would buy it, even considering his tender age of twenty-three… But since she was his boss, he would hopefully shut up and leave her alone without any more well-meant questions.

Finally she heard him leaving her office. She could literally feel him stare at her, certainly with an expression full of pity, until he had disappeared.

When she sipped at the lukewarm coffee in her ‘Kiss The Corpse’ mug that her former boss had given her as a joke when she had started to work for him, her hand was shaking.

Her head felt as if someone had trampled on it.

This was the worst day of her life. Even worse than dealing with this humiliating phone call from Sherlock… It hadn't even been three weeks ago and suddenly it felt as if it had happened a lifetime ago…

How could she have done this…? She had woken up at eight in the morning. Alone. Her mouth had felt as if a skunk had slept in it. The insides of her thighs had been crusted with semen, just like the cushions. She had been stinking of sex and seed and sweat and wine. When she had finally managed to crawl from her ruined couch with the most horrible headache she had ever experienced and a back that had been bent in a most uncomfortable way for hours on end, she had walked like a ninety-year old woman on a particularly bad day. Her legs had felt like jelly and her pussy had felt sore and dirty. Which it most certainly had been…

There had been no sign of John or Rosie in her house. No note. She had checked her phone, knowing what she would find – nothing. He had used her like a whore who did it for free, and then he had taken his daughter and left. There were no used cups or plates apart from the ones from their improvised dinner. If she'd had to guess, she would have said that John had woken up after an hour or so and left immediately. On the bright side, if there was one, it meant it had spared them the awkwardness of waking up entangled with each other on the fucking couch…

How was she supposed to ever meet him again? Would he, God forbid, even expect her to be available for him from now on whenever his actual date didn’t have time for him? Or had this encounter been so meaningless for him that he had forgotten about it already? Would he call her in a few days, casually asking if she had time to look after her goddaughter? And what would she _do_ then?

She had thrown up into the toilet, holding her long hair back with an unstable hand. Retched until nothing had come up anymore. Then she had tumbled into the shower, washing herself with such hot water that she had looked as if someone had cooked her after she had finished scrubbing herself. She had brushed her teeth until the toothpaste had turned red. And when she had been finished with her vigorous morning hygiene, her mirror had told her that she was still the ugliest woman in all England…

She emptied the mug with the ghastly coffee and rose from her chair. She couldn’t sit here all day and suffer. Work was waiting. She would go through the motions and do two autopsies and type reports, and when she was finished, she would go home and get drunk again.

And when she stumbled out of the hospital eight hours later, she still had not received even a text from Doctor John Watson.

####  Mycroft's House

“You’ve been a busy little bee again today, hm?”

Sherlock smiled when he wrapped his arms around big brother’s neck, enjoying Mycroft's firm grip around his waist. “Indeed. Well. I had two cases.” Both for private clients. Solved by listening to the surprisingly interesting stories of the old lady and the middle-aged man in his brand-new flat.

“How was working with John again?”

It was a harmless enough question. But Sherlock had solved cases with John at his side after the Smith case several times. Not lately though. Not since he and Mycroft had become what they were now – lovers. His brother wasn’t jealous of John, was he? Not anymore, certainly? Probably he was rather worried.

But it had been… okay. Well, when Sherlock had called John to ask if he wanted to tag along, the doctor had sounded rather _[hostile]_ grumpy. But then he had agreed to head over to 221B. Private clients often paid pretty well, Sherlock had tried not to think.

When John had arrived, he had looked tired, and it had not been hard to deduce that he had been drinking the night before. And had sex… Perhaps that had brightened up his lately dark mood at least a bit. “It was fine.” Yes, John had looked a bit bored during the second case. And he had kept looking at his watch, but Sherlock knew that he had been on schedule to work in the clinic an hour later.

“ _How’s Rosie?”_ he had asked the doctor when they had been alone again. Mrs Hudson had not come up…

“ _Fine. Growing every day.”_ John had shown a proud smile.

“ _As she should. Is she with Molly now?”_

John had grimaced. _“No. Harry.”_

Sherlock had been confused for a moment. Had John and Molly argued? About him? Or… Oh… That… For a moment he saw John and Molly together and the picture was… awful. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise… They had become best friends months ago, hadn’t they? And he knew he should be happy that Molly had finally found someone else so she would hopefully stop pining for him. And John, too, after Mary… Very soon after Mary… But… This facial expression had not been the one of a man in love. And then he had drawn the obvious conclusion. Alcohol. Sex. Weren’t they linked often enough? He had shuddered involuntarily at an even more vivid image.

John had sighed with an _‘I-should-have-known-you’ll-find-out’_ expression _. “The less you know about it, the better,”_ he had mumbled and rubbed his eyes. _“I need to go.”_

“ _Sure. I’ll send you the cheque. See you soon?”_ Sherlock had sounded pathetic to his own ears, begging for John’s attention. All these complicated emotions… He had never wanted them. He had been alone and alone had protected him. Well, of course he had never really been alone and someone had for sure protected him from the sideline, but he had chosen to not pay attention to it… Then he had met John, and everything had changed. He had made friends, and his life had become entangled with their lives, for better or for worse.

Of course, the feelings for his brother were more than welcome. Mycroft was… everything. And he would never hurt or harm him, or drop him if something went wrong. In fact, Mycroft had, right after they had gotten together, produced fake identities for both of them just in case; identities not even the Secret Service knew about. Sherlock had been overwhelmed when his brother had told him about that – Mycroft really was willing to give up everything for him if push came to shove. It had meant more to him than he had been able to put in words. He knew that he was perfectly safe with Mycroft, mentally and physically.

But he was not blind or biased enough to not know that he wasn’t with John. He could tell everybody a hundred times that it had been a special situation and his own fault above all – he knew damn well that it could happen again. But there was also the other John, the brave, loyal, life-saving one. He loved this John dearly. And when they had smiled at one another before John had left, assuring him that they would meet again soon, he had seen this other John underneath the bitter, exhausted, angry man he had become.

“It was fine,” he said again, and he could see that Mycroft was trying to hide his concern. He wasn’t hiding it very well.

But what he said was, “Good,” in his softest voice, and then they walked over to the dining room where they would have dinner together.

Sherlock would spend the night with him, as he mostly did no matter that his flat was more than habitable again. He knew that he could do that as Mrs Hudson was aware that he was in the best of hands – and that it was highly unlikely that John would show up unannounced to spend some friendly time with him...

*****

Mycroft didn't like it. He didn't like the doctor still being in Sherlock's life, as random as he was now. And he knew that Sherlock knew that. But he didn't say anything. Sherlock was a very intelligent man. He had succumbed to sentiment a long time ago and he had made some very unfortunate decisions in the past – but hopefully, he had learned from it. But Mycroft was not a man who wasted his time with illusions. He knew that most certainly, Sherlock would still do anything to keep John as his friend, as unworthy as the doctor had proven to be. He could only hope that if John really decided to lash out on him again, Sherlock would not have it. He should really know by now that there was someone in his life who would always have his back, always be on his side and do anything to protect him, and that someone was not John Watson. So Sherlock shouldn’t think that he depended on his doctor as much as he had previously thought he did.

But Mycroft would not be there if Sherlock had a dangerous case. He would not literally be able to go into the fire to rescue him. For a moment he pondered how that would be – he being Sherlock's sidekick instead of John. He smiled sadly to himself. He would not be very useful. As undeniably smart as he was (his own unfortunate decisions aside), as reluctant he was to run after criminals and poke at dead bodies.

He was not the adventurous type. In this way, Sherlock and John were much more compatible. John was a doctor after all and so he had some expertise that Mycroft was lacking. And for years, they had been a great match. And he assumed that Sherlock still refused to see that these times may be over for good… And it was not Mycroft's place to tell him to finally get rid of a man who wasn’t good for him anymore. He had tried to tell Sherlock what to do for the most part of his brother’s adult life. It had led to nothing but pain and rejection and mutual nastiness. He didn’t want or need that again, and neither did Sherlock.

So obviously, all he could do was hoping for the best – as it was not an option to make John leave Sherlock's life. That was something that Sherlock would never forgive him for, and he simply couldn’t risk that.

“Mycroft…”

“Hm?”

“I can hear you think. It’s unbecoming.”

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's shoulders. They had made love. Well, they had actually exchanged very satisfying blowjobs in a sixty-nine position. Now they were recovering from their climaxes. And yes – he had been thinking… “Sorry, little brother… Just… You know…”

Sherlock raised his head and kissed his lips. “I know. I promise.”

And that had to be enough, Mycroft supposed… How lovely he looked with his curls tousled and his cheeks heated, his little brother.

“Mycroft…”

“Yes, Sherlock?” He smiled at the mischievous tone in Sherlock's voice and the twinkle in these mercurial eyes.

“I think I’m ready again.”

“That’s what you think, hm? Whatever should we do about it?” Mycroft took in the breathtaking sight of naked baby brother. He had seen him in his full glory many times now, and Sherlock's beauty still stunned him. He assumed that it would never get old.

“Fuck me, Mycroft.”

“Language!” But Mycroft was smiling when he playfully chided his gorgeous companion. “Well… Then you should better get me ready.”

“On it, Mycroft.” And he was – his hand stroking up and down on Mycroft's length, making it fill out more with every repeat. “Not so middle-aged after all, are you?”

“Not quite dead at least,” Mycroft smirked and grimaced then at his choice of words. But he proceeded to stop thinking for now. It was not the time for it. It was time for love.

*****

When Mycroft had been in him for the first time, it had been a shock, simply put. The human anus was not constructed for anything going in, even though it had probably been done since the first human-like creatures had walked the earth. Sherlock had looked at gay porn beforehand, never thinking much about the easiness in which those men were taking large to gigantic real cocks and toys up their rear ends. But being penetrated by such an object himself had taught him that it was, quite literally, a big deal… It had hurt, no matter how much Mycroft had prepared him and loosened him up and how dripping wet with lubricant Sherlock had been. It had felt like being speared and it had been more than a bit uncomfortable.

And he had loved it. From the first moment. Pain had never been foreign to him, and he had always been good at enduring it. But this was so much more than pain. It was a shocking intrusion, yes, and it still was after several times being on the receiving end of Mycroft's generous genital. But being stretched around his thick member, having places in him stimulated whose existence he might have theoretically known but never cared about, being so close to his brother, kissing him while Mycroft was pumping into him – Sherlock would have never thought he would enjoy this so much. It literally filled him with his brother’s affection. Mycroft was pumping carefully until Sherlock told him to move faster, and he still always was gentle. When they had done this a few dozen times more, they might want to experiment with positions and all kinds of things that neither of them knew about now (and Sherlock was very eager to investigate where their love for each other could lead them, sexual-wise) but for now they preferred the missionary position. The irony of this expression wasn’t lost on either of them… But wasn’t Mycroft a true missionary? Wasn’t he teaching Sherlock love? Because this was love, pure and simple. They had not said the actual words to each other but there could be no doubt whatsoever that they both were, apart from loving each other as siblings, madly in love with one another. What they were doing now was proof enough for that. Sex might be a meaningless, random thing for many of the goldfish, but for doing it with each other, it was… Well, if Sherlock had been so inclined, he would have thought of a holy action. And he didn't even believe in any higher powers. But he believed in Mycroft and, miraculously, Mycroft believed in him, and being so intimately connected seemed to deepen this belief time and time again.

Sherlock had his legs slung firmly around Mycroft's waist, their lips were locked, and he moaned at every deep stroke that Mycroft delivered. “Faster,” he demanded now, knowing that they were both close. He could feel his balls draw up and he bent to be able to finger Mycroft's, making his brother moan into his mouth.

It was the best moment for Sherlock – not reaching his own climax but feeling Mycroft coming. The feeling of hot fluid being shot into him, Mycroft's low moans and panting and rolled eyes and lip-bites… Seeing his brother coming apart was his most favourite occurrence now. The Not-Really-Iceman losing it, his shields, already lowered deep for Sherlock, breaking into splinters. A man, living for power and schemes in his everyday life, reduced to a feeling, sweating, spurting human being – Sherlock loved it. It had made him come only seconds after his brother, shooting his semen into the non-existent gap between their sweaty bodies. Everything would be sticky and gross – and Sherlock pulled Mycroft into an even tighter embrace, urging him to kiss him.

This was it. This was what he had never known he needed so desperately. Not just the sex but the love. A love he had thought he would never find – and which had been so close all his life. And Sherlock couldn’t have been happier to have finally discovered it, and Mycroft, now stroking his face with reverence, smiling at him, clearly felt the same way. Everything was as it should be between the two brothers Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

####  A Crime Scene In South London

“I think he’s been dead for about four days. At least.” John straightened his back and closed his jacket a bit more. It was a nasty, rainy day, and the South London area vibes added to the grim atmosphere.

Sherlock saw Greg nod; then the DI turned to him. “You think so too?”

He avoided John’s look when he answered, seeing the tightening of his friend’s jaw from the corner of his eye. “If John says so. Seems to fit. Multiple stab wounds?”

Now he did look at John, but before the doctor could answer, Lestrade said, “Yeah. About twenty.”

“Twenty-two,” John corrected him through gritted teeth.

“Whatever… The weapon, as you can see…”

Sherlock blanked Lestrade out. This wasn’t going well at all, and he was torn between feeling upset and touched. Greg was showing his dislike for John more than he had ever done before – on account of feeling repulsed by the violence he had inflicted on him, Sherlock. But if _he_ could forgive John, Lestrade should really be able to do that, too, shouldn’t he? In fact, Sherlock had never doubted that John had been entitled to be brutal and merciless. Well… But it wasn’t Greg’s place to be nasty to their mutual friend now. Who did he think he was? His father? His protector? Sherlock wasn’t in need of either of them as he still had a father and his protector would be all over him soon enough.

The frosty atmosphere between his friends annoyed him, and it affected his thought process. He tried to focus on the body and after half a minute, he had closed himself up well enough to deliver the deductions that would lead the police to Lance Miller’s murderer.

Lestrade thanked him with a wide smile when he was finished, and waved Donovan to come over to give her the necessary orders.

Sherlock glanced at John, who was standing two metres apart, his hands in his jacket pockets, the expression on his face a mixture of anger and disappointment. He looked old, Sherlock realised. So much older than his years. His hair had lost almost all its original colour, and he needed a haircut rather urgently. The pouches under his eyes had gotten even bigger – he tended to drink too much, Sherlock concluded. It made his heart heavy as it was hard to not blame himself for the rough times his friend had been going through since… Well, ever since Sherlock had ‘died’. He knew that it had hit John hard. And Mary’s loss had been even worse, naturally. This man was just a shadow of the man who had saved his life on the very first day of their acquaintance, and it hurt Sherlock's heart.

So when John now strode off, giving them an ironic little wave, he followed him, leaving Lestrade to deal with the consequences of his deductions.

“John…”

John continued to stalk away on the dirty pavement, not turning to him. “It’s all right, Sherlock. He doesn’t want me around anymore.”

“But _I_ want you to…”

“Forget it. As long as he treats me like this, I won’t bother him with my presence anymore. Bye.”

Sherlock stopped trying to keep up with him. He watched him walk off until he had disappeared – a short man who usually tried to look taller by holding himself very straight. Now his back was bent, and so were his spirits.

“He’s a real diva,” Lestrade said behind him, startling him.

“You could have been nicer to him.”

“Yeah. I could have. And he could have refrained from beating you up.”

Sherlock sighed. “It’s time to let it rest, Greg. He’s struggling, don’t you see that?” He turned to look at the inspector, who had put his collar up against the uncharacteristically cold wind.

“Who isn’t, Sherlock? Have you seen Molly lately? She looks like she’s gotten a punch too many.”

Sherlock winced. He wondered what Greg would say if he told him what he had deduced about John and Molly three weeks ago. Probably Greg would follow John and strangle him… “No,” he mumbled. Molly was the very last person he longed to see, as nasty as it was. He just couldn’t endure her begging eyes anymore. In fact, he had not seen her since before the explosion in his flat.

“She’s suffering and she won’t tell me why.”

Good for John, Sherlock thought. But perhaps Molly’s mood had nothing to do with John. When had she ever really looked happy anyway? Probably it was still because of _him_ and this silly _‘I love you’_ debacle _…_ “Anyway. He said he won’t accompany me to crime scenes anymore until you are nicer to him.”

“Well then. I guess I won’t see him so soon,” Lestrade retorted with atypical glee.

Sherlock shook his head. “This is so unnecessary. You don’t give him any chance to redeem himself. And I need him.” He winced when Lestrade stepped closer.

“No, Sherlock. You don’t. The man you adored so much and who called you ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’ does no longer exist. Don’t make people into victims, Sherlock. We all make our choices and we have to live with them. All he does is blaming others for feeling bad. Especially you. He does not like you anymore.”

It felt like a stab to his heart. “He has come to join me, hasn’t he? Why would he do that if he hated me?” John didn’t. Not after all they had gone through.

Greg sighed. “Perhaps he was just bored.”

Sherlock tightened his jaw. “Thanks, Grant. You’re a true friend.” And with this he turned and left.

####  John’s Flat

“Oh. Hi Molly.”

“John. Can I come in?”

She could see that he would have preferred to slam the door shut. Before she could enter… But then he nodded, his lips pressed together, and made a step back so she could slip in.

“I… I need to go in half an hour.”

She wouldn’t need half an hour…

She was feeling sick. Horrible. Anxious like never before in her life. But she could do that. She had to. She led the way to John’s living room and winced when he sighed before he followed her. No. She would not cry now…

She had already cried enough…

Standing in the middle of the room, which was not exactly neat as usual, she turned to face him. Before she could begin, he asked, “Care for some water? Don’t think it’s a good time for wine.”

“No. It really isn’t.” And not because it was nine in the morning. “It won’t be a good time for wine for about eight months.”

It took him a surprisingly long moment to get it. Then his face turned white. “What?” His voice was quiet and hoarse.

Everything in her cried to make a step backwards. Or preferably run out of this flat. But she couldn’t. “You know what I mean. You’re a doctor, too.”

He shook his head vehemently. “That can’t be. I mean… It was just this once!”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Was he _really_ a doctor? “I can assure you. It can be, and it is. I’m pregnant. From you.” Would he next accuse her of having slept with so many other men, too, that she could hardly tell who the father was? But of course not even he could be so thick. He knew that nobody else had wanted her for ages. And he hadn’t done it, either… Not one phone call since this evening. Not even a text. Not asking her to babysit. He had erased her and what had happened from his mind. Well, tough chance. Now she was back and she would never leave his life again, whether he wanted it or not.

“You’ve got to get rid of it, that’s clear, isn’t it?”

Molly closed her eyes. Of course she had thought about it after seeing the results. She shook her head. “No. Not an option.” She had always wanted to be a mother. And this was her last chance.

It was the wrong time, the wrong man – everything about this was wrong. Getting a baby from a man who had fucked her in a state of drunkenness had never been her life goal. She had seen herself getting married at a young age, becoming a mother of two children – ideally a boy and a girl.

It hadn’t happened. There had never been a man she would have wanted to share her life with. With one exception… And John wasn’t it…

And of course he knew that very well. He threw his arms in the air. “I can’t believe you want to punish me like this.”

“Pun-… What?”

He stepped even closer, so close that she could smell tea and toast in his breath. “I didn’t rape you, did I?”

They hadn’t really discussed having sex beforehand, either. He had overpowered her. But it wouldn’t have been fair to speak of ‘rape’ – she had been drunk but she did recall slinging her legs around him. She had been pissed and horny. Just like him. “No, you didn’t. We were both drunk and…”

“Exactly! And you really want to have a child that results from some meaningless drunken fucking? Didn’t waste a moment’s thought on contraception, did you?”

At this moment she hated him. He was an arrogant, unbearable arsehole. Blaming it all on her. It had taken two to make this baby! She was still searching for words when he spoke again, quietly and dangerously.

“You never looked at me with any kind of interest, did you? You just spent time with me after… after I lost Mary because of Rosie, not because you liked me. I bet you imagined I was Sherlock when I fuck-…” He stopped abruptly when she slapped his face with as much force as she could. His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it painfully. For a moment she thought he would hit back. “Don’t you fucking dare hit me, you bitch. I don’t want your bastard, and I don’t want you.”

Molly freed her arm, refraining from rubbing the reddened skin. “I know! And I certainly didn't plan it. But I want this child because I’m thirty-five and I’ll never get pregnant again! And yes! I wish it would be Sherlock's baby! But he’ll never fuck me, will he? If you like it or not – this is your child as well as mine. I don’t ask you to marry me, God. I don’t even ask you for money. But I don’t want my child to grow up without a dad! God, you already have a kid! A kid I love and took care of more often than I can count – and yes, of course she was the reason for me to…” _Abandon Sherlock?_ Dammit. Why did he always have to sneak into her mind…? “This baby will be Rosie’s sibling.” Now the tears were falling – she couldn’t hold them back any longer. “We made this child, drunk or not, and now we have to deal with it.” She would be alone with everything. The antenatal classes, the examinations, giving birth eventually – nobody would be at her side. But she didn’t care. She had always been alone. It would be hard with her full-time job. But she would manage. She dried her face with her sleeve, sniffing.

John let himself fall into his armchair and rubbed his face. “This is the last thing I need, Molly.”

Hadn’t this been her first thought, too? Definitely… She had been shocked. Devastated. Until she had sat down to think and make up her mind. “I know. But it is what it is.”

John raised his head and stared at her for a long moment. Finally he nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. I’ll take care of the child.” His tone clearly said, _‘And now go.’_

And she did. She had made her point. She would have a baby from a man who despised her. A not overly attractive man with severe anger issues as well as a very troubled past. But she had seen him with Rosie countless times. He was a very good father. Perhaps he would learn to love their child, even though it would be born by a mother he didn’t care about. What would everybody else say? Greg? Sherlock…? She had not told anyone that she was pregnant. But soon enough, it would be impossible to hide it. They would laugh about her again, wouldn’t they? Well, what else was new...

When she had entered the tube, she was close to crying again.

####  Mycroft's House

He should have been smarter. Should have seen it coming. But Sherlock had looked so gorgeous and innocent, sleeping like a baby, when Mycroft, fully dressed, had returned to their bedroom – Sherlock might officially live in Baker Street again but he stayed over more often than not so it had become _their_ bedroom – to have another glance at his beautiful brother before starting another long, arduous day at work.

He had a very early meeting this morning so he had gotten up by himself, eaten a bit of toast and drunk coffee after taking care of his morning hygiene. Now he had brushed his teeth and bent down to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. When Sherlock was sleeping, he was sleeping deep, and a peck on the face wouldn’t wake him up.

Only that he was already awake, and all of a sudden, a strong hand grabbed Mycroft's neck to direct his lips to his mouth. Mycroft looked into two sparkling blue eyes and saw a smug grin. And he smelled toothpaste, so Sherlock had sneaked into the other bathroom when Mycroft had been busy.

Cunning little brother…

Mycroft had to kneel on the bed and hold onto Sherlock's shoulder to not fall over. He chuckled into his lover’s greedy mouth. “Sherlock… I need to go. The PM…”

Sherlock wasn’t impressed. What a surprise… “He can’t start without you, can he? Besides – you’re early anyway. You always are.”

Mycroft had to admit that. But he had wanted to read some reports before he had to waste his time with a particularly annoying kind of goldfish… Granted, he would probably still be able to do that if he left in about ten minutes. But of course this was not nearly enough time for what Sherlock clearly had in mind and taking another shower afterwards. “Tonight I’ll be all yours, Sherlock, but now…”

“You’re _always_ all mine, Mycroft!”

“Yes, of course I am.” Mycroft managed to free himself from Sherlock’s grip and straightened up. But before he could proceed to walk out, Sherlock had sat up and slung his legs around Mycroft's, making it impossible for him to walk. Deft fingers opened his zip and freed his rapidly swelling cock from its confinements. “Sherlock… You can’t…!”

“Of course I can. Give me two minutes. I’ll make sure everything stays clean.” And with this announcement, he swallowed Mycroft's member in one go and started sucking him with the most indecent noises Mycroft could imagine.

He couldn’t help but laugh about his insolent little brother, but the laughter immediately turned into a moan when Sherlock’s devious tongue started to play with his fraenulum, making his knees go all weak and his groin tingle with need. “Oh God…” he brought out. Sherlock mumbled something around his swollen prick and Mycroft laughed again while desperately trying not to collapse all over him as this felt so indescribably good… “Yes, I know that you’re Sherlock, you beast.”

Sherlock giggled and scratched him a bit, but even if that had cooled Mycroft’s arousal one bit, he would have had to succumb to it again only a second later when his balls were pulled out into the fresh air of the bedroom as well and expertly fondled with.

Having his brother suck him off was not only a sensation to die for – it was a wondrous sight, too. Sherlock's cheeks going hollow under these marvellous cheekbones, his beautifully shaped lips closed around his throbbing flesh, his eyes looking up to him beneath these long, black lashes – it was a sight to keel over about.

It didn’t even take two minutes until he tumbled over the edge, pushed by a particularly naughty movement of Sherlock's tongue. He cried out when he pulsed over said tongue, and as usual when he came like this, he came extra hard at the thought of how his semen would run down Sherlock's long throat, how the most intimate fluid of his body got into his brother’s stomach as if he was eating Mycroft's very essence.

As promised, Sherlock licked him clean while he was still panting through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Eventually, Sherlock let him go, looking satisfied with his service. “See. Your trousers are perfectly clean, not a drop shed.”

“You’re too good to me,” rasped out Mycroft, who felt as if he needed one or two more hours of sleep now.

“Ah, I’m sure Anthea will get you some strong coffee. And you’ll be going into this meeting in a very good mood.”

Mycroft smiled down on him while he was closing his zip again. “Very considerate of you. But what about you then? You know I can’t return the favour now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll beat off thinking of what I just did. I got very close to coming anyway.”

Yes. Sherlock was clearly very aroused. Mycroft looked at his brother’s crotch, swallowing, when Sherlock stroked over his large bulge. “You are the devil.”

“Always said I’m no angel; that’s for sure.” Sherlock sounded rather smug, but he had every right to be.

“God forbid,” smirked Mycroft. He bent down to kiss him on the lips. “Thank you, brother mine. What are your plans? Besides finishing what you’ve started?”

“I thought I could teach myself autofellatio,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully, and Mycroft laughed out loud.

“Yes. Do send me a video if you succeed.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I was joking as you very well know. I want _you_ to suck my cock tonight.” He grimaced. “Actually… I thought I should go to Bart’s for a change.”

“Oh. Visiting the suffering Miss Molly.”

“Don’t be mean, Mycroft!”

“Sorry. Well, I guess it doesn’t hurt to talk to her.”

“Not so sure about that,” mumbled Sherlock. “But it’s about time, I guess.” He didn’t sound exactly hopeful that this conversation would be very pleasant, and Mycroft couldn’t imagine that, either.

Mycroft stroked his cheek. “Seems we are both about to have some ghastly meetings. Talk later then.” He brushed another kiss on Sherlock's nose.

“Sure. I love you.”

Mycroft had turned to leave already but these words made him stop. Sherlock had never said this before. Neither had he. Why ever not? Because they both knew it anyway? Because putting sentiment into words was beneath them? Or had they been afraid of breaking the spell, so to speak?

Beyond glad that Sherlock had said it, after all, he returned to the bed and sat down on it, his hand reaching out to cup Sherlock's cheek. “I love you, too, little brother. More than I could ever say.”

The smile that spread on Sherlock's face would be imprinted on his soul forever. “I know, lover mine.”

And then they kissed again, and again, and when Mycroft finally left the house, he seemed to be floating.

####  St. Bart’s Hospital – The Morgue

All in all, Sherlock would tell his brotherly lover that evening, he would have been better off really indulging in sucking his own cock than visiting Molly Hooper, even if he had managed to damage his back while choking on his own come…

He had bought her chocolates. It had been a spontaneous idea on his way to the hospital. A nice gesture, and didn’t all women like pricey chocolates? He had almost left the store when the saleswoman had asked him if they were for a lovely lady and should be wrapped as a gift. The very last thing he had planned for was giving Molly a wrong idea about his agenda. Which simply was to bury a hatchet that he had never wanted to dig up in the first place. They had been some kind of friends, hadn’t they – until she had chosen John’s side after Mary’s death? She had helped him fake his death. He had taken her to a crime scene to thank her. She had been useful to him and he had allowed her to pine for him in return, never confronting her with her unwelcome feelings that had always made him feel uncomfortable.

Until Eurus had forced him to do it… What had his sister tried to gain from that anyway? He would have asked her but she still didn’t talk. He had not visited her for a while now, he realised. Well, he had been busy with thoroughly improving his other sibling-relationship. Deepening their bond…

Anyways, he was bringing Molly a treat to say ‘sorry’. This horrible conversation in Sherrinford had not been his fault but perhaps he could have handled this situation in a better way, and her reaction to his text a day later had said loud and clear that she had been hurt a lot by it.

He didn’t want any bad blood between him and his friends. He had texted Lestrade after storming off of their last crime scene, childishly calling him by a wrong name again, and said sorry for having been an arse to him, and Greg had immediately answered and said it was fine – they had gotten their murderer thanks to his conclusions, and Sherlock could call him by any name he wanted if he just went on solving his crimes. Neither had brought up the really sore topic – John – but Sherlock had been pleased by how easy-going the inspector actually was.

But this… This was a totally different story… A horror story, he thought as soon as he had started to approach her, a soothing smile on his lips, the chocolates held out like an olive branch, and he thought that it felt a bit like bringing a treat for a predator that would otherwise swallow him whole… And then he took in the sight in front of him, making the inevitable deductions – and stood, shock-frozen.

She looked… awful… Pale and fragile, the skin under her eyes swollen. Her hair was greasy and looked as if she had cut it herself. In the dark. And she looked as if she had thrown up quite a lot lately. Which was pretty natural because…

_My God… She’s pregnant…_

He should have turned and run the moment he realised it. Because… Whose baby could that be but John’s? For a split second, he indulged in hoping that he had drawn the wrong conclusions when he had been talking to John and the father was in fact some kind, sweet, normal boyfriend. But then she narrowed her huge eyes at him and threw the scalpel she had been holding onto the tray with the other instruments she’d been using for the autopsy he had interrupted. “God… It took you just one second to figure it out, right? Not just that I’m knocked up… What a nice expression this is, don’t you think? Our friends across the ocean use it. No, you also know who it was. You’re so smart, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock's mouth was so dry that he couldn’t have brought out a word if his life had depended on it. And really – even he knew that whatever he said could only be wrong.

What _did_ one say in such a situation anyway _? ‘Congratulations! An instant hit, wasn’t it?’ ‘What did the proud father say?’ ‘Is it nice throwing up five times every day?’_

The deductions were whirling in his mind while she was glowering at him. John knew it already and hadn’t reacted very enthusiastically about the news. There had been a row. Hard words. John had told her to have an abortion and had in the end agreed at doing his part once the baby was there but he had not been exactly nice about that. In fact, he had probably gritted his teeth like a very pissed-off Dobermann.

Molly glowered at him. “I hate it when you look at me like this! Digging in my brain, pulling every nasty detail into the light so you can dissect it and judge me.”

“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I do not… I hope… Everything will be… fine.” Even the corpse on the stretcher – an overweight old man – seemed to roll its eyes at this attempt at a reasonable conversation.

She took off her gloves and threw them onto the ground. “Oh, it most certainly will be! I’m puking all the time now and John never calls to ask how I’m doing. He hasn’t wanted anything to do with me since he’s fucked me on my couch and I doubt very much that this will ever change. He told me to get rid of it, but of course you knew that already. You know everything, don’t you?” She had come closer with every sentence and Sherlock really, really wanted to be anywhere but in the same room with her (and he was glad that she had put the scalpel away…). “Bet you also know how it happened, huh?”

“I…” He broke off, looking at her like a rabbit would look at a snake.

She stared at him with an expression one could only describe as contempt. “Oh, don’t be shy. You love to throw your deductions at people, don’t you? Remember that Christmas?”

God… How could anyone be so resentful? He had apologised! Hadn’t he also told her that she counted when he had needed her for preparing The Fall? That he had always trusted her? Well, that had been _then_. Right now, and actually for quite some time, he wouldn’t have said that anymore. He remembered how she had slapped his face when he had gotten high in order to mislead Magnussen. Oh… She had done that with John, too… And the father of her unborn child had not hit back… But he had certainly wanted to do it…

“So quiet? How unusual for you.” Molly had now reached him and he made a tiny, casual step backwards. “So, no guesses? Well, you don't have to guess. You can see right through me. See me lying with my legs spread and John pounding his little dick into me. Quite energetic he was.”

Sherlock was close to covering his ears with his hands. Why did she tell him that?

Her face was a scary grimace now. “He fucked me so hard and then he made me come and shot his load into me. Do you know how that feels? Having hot sperm spurting into you?”

Actually he did even though the orifice was a different one. It felt great, actually. But the images he had to endure now were simply ghastly. “I… I don't know why you’re telling me that. And why you’re so angry at…”

“Oh, you don’t, huh?” She closed the distance again and poked her forefinger against his chest. “But of course you know! I wanted it to be _you_! Why did you never do that? Fuck me, Sherlock! Fuck John’s bloody baby out of me and give me yours!”

She had gone crazy… Compared to her, Eurus was the epitome of reason. Were the pregnancy hormones to be blamed? Or had she snapped even before? The thought that she and John were practically made for each other shot through his mind before he focused on the matter at hand, knowing he could only lose, whatever he said. “I… I'm gay.”

Now _she_ made a step backwards, her eyes widened almost comically, but nothing was funny about this situation. And Sherlock was glad that he didn’t find it funny because if he had laughed, she would have probably fetched that scalpel and rammed it into his throat… Or castrated him…

“Gay?!”

“Um. Yes. I am. Gay.”

“And… you couldn’t be _arsed_ to tell me that a bit sooner?” she screeched, her hair falling into her face as she was shaking her head vehemently. “You _idiot_! You could have spared me so much fucking pain! God… How you must have laughed about me!”

“I didn’t, I never did. Please, calm down.” He instinctively reached out to touch her arm to ground her but it didn’t go down well.

“Get your fingers off of me! What about that woman? The dead woman you had seen naked? Who was she, huh? If you're so gay!” Her voice had gotten louder with every word, and Sherlock wondered when the security staff would come check on the usually silent morgue… This entire scene reminded him of his confrontation with John during the Smith case… Morgues were no longer healthy places to be at for him…

“It was a case. She had opened up the door, naked, to confuse me,” he stammered. And _how_ Irene had confused him… That debacle had not been his proudest hour. Not that _this_ situation was now…

“A case,” Molly spat out. “That’s all you can think of.”

In fact, Sherlock had rarely thought about cases lately as he had been too busy thinking about Mycroft and their awesome relationship… But he could hardly tell her that… Probably she would have an instant miscarriage if he let her know that he was romantically and sexually involved with his own brother… Or she would kill him, whatever happened first…

There was no way to save this friendship, if it had ever even existed. If he was honest, he had basically only used her for his purposes – access to the morgue and human body parts, faking his death. And she had been pining for him ever since they had met, doing all she could to please him, hoping that she would win his heart by being of use. He did feel ashamed about himself but she was a smart woman after all – she should have understood a long time ago that he wasn't interested in her in any romantic way. And she shouldn’t have forced him to tell her that he loved her… It could have only made it worse for her. Her response had been sleeping with his (once) closest friend – the second best thing in her eyes. She might have been severely drunk when it had happened, but Sherlock was sure that subconsciously, she had wanted it before John had made his move on her.

He felt sorry for her, especially now that she was looking so devastated. After her last acidic remark, she had sunk down on a chair, a picture of misery. He would have liked to comfort her but he knew that nothing that he could say would make it better – as he would never seriously tell her the words that she longed to hear from him.

But he had to say something. “I’m so-…”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and weak. Every bit of energy seemed to have left her. “I never wanted your pity. I wanted _you_.”

There was nothing to say to this and they both knew it. Sherlock walked over to her and finally offered her the box of chocolates. It looked a bit damaged as he had cramped his hand around it.

She looked at it and gave him a smile full of resignation and bitterness when she took it from his hand. “Thanks. Since I’m going to get fat anyway, and why ever not, I can as well eat what I want.”

Sherlock looked down on her, a man totally out of his depth, and after a silence that had stretched for too long, he said, “If you need help, I mean…”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ll manage. I’ve always managed on my own. And hey – the kid will have a great dad after all.” Her voice was dripping with irony at the last words.

Sherlock knew that John was, in fact, a great dad. For the child he’d been gifted with by the woman he had loved. But who knew? Perhaps he would take to his second child once it was born, no matter how little he cared about the mother?

Since he assumed that this would not be a very sensitive thing to say, he settled for, “If you need anything…” but he didn’t get very far.

“…I won't bother you with it,” she finished his sentence. “I know you don't like me, not really. I don't think you like anyone but John. Which is rather surprising, considering how he’s been treating you for years now.”

Sherlock winced, which had been the point as he knew. And her statement was wrong anyway - apart from the very last part, sadly enough. There was someone he liked a lot more than John. But even if he had been able to tell her that – it wasn’t her so she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, if it was his brother or not. She was hurt and no matter what he said, she would remain hurt, and probably she didn’t like herself all that much, either. She wanted to lash out on him, and even if this was not entirely fair, Sherlock couldn’t do anything about it. And he didn’t want to, anyway. As fucked up as his friendship with John was, there was probably more hope for repairing it than getting things right with Molly.

“Bye then,” he said, turning away, and he heard her mumble, “Yes. Go. It’s all you ever did.”

He didn’t answer her, and when he had reached the exit, he realised that he had not breathed properly ever since he had entered the building. And he remembered what Mycroft had said to him many years ago, right in this place – ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’ And even though this statement had been proven wrong for the two of them, it certainly had its merits when it came to Molly Hooper.

Feeling as if he had just so survived a confrontation with another serial killer, Sherlock took a cab to Baker Street. He would have tea with Mrs Hudson if she was around and perhaps there would be a nice little case to solve, and then he would go back to Mycroft's place to wait for his sweet, reasonable lover who would never turn into an unpredictable, fire-spitting dragon.


	7. Chapter 7

####  Sherlock And John Have A Phone Call

“ _Hey, John. Great to hear from you.”_

“ _Yes… Thought it’s time to say hi again. How are things?”_

“ _Fine. What about you?”_

“ _It’s okay. Lots of work. Rosie. You know.”_

“ _Yes. John… Um… I didn’t want to bring this up but…”_

“ _Oh, great. She told you?”_

“ _No. Not sure if she would have but… I deduced it.”_

“ _Yeah, of course. Forgot who I’m talking to… So what? I’ll do what she demanded. Help her out.”_

“ _Well, it’s_ your _child, too, so…”_

“ _I really don’t need to be told how to care for kids. Least of all from you.”_

“ _I wasn’t attacking you, John.”_

“ _Sorry. But it sucks! I feel like a pariah. Everything is always my fault!”_

“ _I never…”_

“ _And it takes two to tango, right? It wasn’t as if she didn't want it. Spread her legs for me within a second. Fuck, her pussy was dripping already.”_

“ _God, John, I really don’t…”_

“ _She was clinging to me as if she was drowning and went off like a rocket when I fumbled with her clit… What was that noise? You okay?”_

“ _Fine. Um… It’s not my business. Sorry to have mentioned it. I’m sure you’ll take good care of your… second child.”_

“ _Yeah. Cause I will. Was a shock of course. Never thought this would happen.”_

“ _You didn’t, um, think of using a condom?”_

“ _How should I know she’s not on contraceptives?”_

“ _Well, it’s not as if she had such an active…”_

“ _Did she tell you to talk to me, Sherlock? Did she want to have some more pressure on me? Because I really don’t need that.”_

“You _called_ me _, John. And of course she didn’t say anything and…”_

“ _Just keep your fat nose out of my love life, Sherlock. I never interfered with yours. Oh, wait, you’ve never had one. You have no idea how it is for us mortals who crave sex from time to time. For you that’s just icky, isn’t it? Something for the idiots.”_

“ _I need to go now, John. Talk another time.”_

“ _Yeah, whatever, bye.”_

####  Mycroft's House

Mycroft watched his brother for a moment when he had entered their bedroom. Sherlock was sitting on the mattress, naked, his head bent, an expression of melancholy on his beautiful features. His right hand was holding his phone, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the phone call he had just finished had not been pleasant. He was so deep in his thoughts that he had not even noticed that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Mycroft had heard him speak when he had returned to the bedroom from his shower, a towel slung around his waist, but he had not understood what he had told the person on the other end of the line. But there was no question who it had been. Only one person in this world could make Sherlock feel crestfallen like this.

If he could have just erased John Watson from Sherlock's life and his memory, Mycroft would have done it in an instant. It would have been an easy thing to do for him. The thought had crossed his mind, naturally, when he had heard about John’s latest outburst of violence against his brother, almost resulting in Sherlock’s demise. But of course it had not been an option. Sherlock would have never forgiven him, and even though their relationship had not been what it was now, he wouldn’t have risked losing Sherlock forever.

He had swallowed it. He had even called John a ‘fine man’ in Sherrinford, knowing that Sherlock would have never opted for shooting the doctor anyway – and he had certainly not wanted to spend the alleged last minutes of his life arguing with the man who meant so much to him. And it had been true, actually. John _was_ a fine man in many respects. For a long time, he had been a very loyal friend for his brother, had looked after him when Mycroft had not been allowed to, had changed Sherlock's behaviour for the better – Sherlock had never gotten high with John at his side. And of course John had saved his life on the very first day. And ever since they had moved in with each other, Sherlock had apparently been happier than ever before since he had grown into a man. He had even made more friends as he had softened and allowed himself to enjoy people’s company – to some extent. His change had not affected the troubled relationship with Mycroft himself for a long time but in the end, it had turned into the single best thing Mycroft had ever experienced, and he hoped that Sherlock felt the same way.

John had been a good influence on Sherlock for years – until he hadn't been anymore. Long before his wife had died, he had changed into a man who didn’t seem to care about Sherlock that much anymore. And after this unholy confrontation with Norbury (and Mycroft would never forgive himself for not having discovered the secretary’s secret), he had developed into a highly unpleasant person. Always angry and aggressive. Blaming everybody but himself for whatever happened in his life. Especially Sherlock. The man was dangerous.

And Sherlock wouldn’t let go of him even though he had to know that very well.

Now he looked up when Mycroft approached him. He gave him a sad little smile and put his phone onto the bed stand. “This child… It’s not to be envied.”

No, it really wasn’t. After everything Sherlock had told him about his conversation with pregnant Molly Hooper, she had become almost as unstable and unpredictable as John. They would make great parents for a child, especially as they were not exactly in a relationship. Which, on the other hand, could also be an advantage…

“I think they hate each other.” Sherlock shook his head. “I really hope they’ll get their senses back before the baby comes.”

Oh, Sherlock. Sweet, caring Sherlock. Had he still not realised that caring was indeed not an advantage? Not if it only caused him worry and hurt. But Mycroft knew that he was hypocritical in this regard. He had always cared for Sherlock even though his brother had pushed him away again and again.

But he wouldn’t do it now. Mycroft sat down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder. They had enjoyed a fine dinner before they had gone upstairs. And now Mycroft was very willing to distract Sherlock from thoughts about matters he could do nothing about. He didn't like seeing his brother so pensive and quiet. He didn't like it at all, and he felt a hefty dislike for the man who had been causing Sherlock pain again and again. Not for the first time, and, sadly, certainly not for the last time.

His lips found Sherlock's, and as always, he melted at how wonderful they felt under his own. Sherlock smiled, finally, and parted his lips for him so their tongues could begin their dance of love.

“Want me to make love to you?” he asked softly when they had parted for air.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, please, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and stroked over his thick, curly hair, not showing how heavy his heart had become at his beloved’s meek tone. “Lie down on your front for me, will you?”

And thirty seconds later, Sherlock was spread out for him on the bed, a pillow placed under his groin, and Mycroft proceeded to begin his thorough preparation.

*****

A hot breeze ghosted over his hole. Light, kittenish licks teased his entrance. A finger, sticky with lube, probed gently at the reluctant muscle, asking for entrance.

Sherlock was holding his arm over his face, his breath coming in erratic little puffs. His brother was licking him. Opening him up on his tongue and his fingers. All thoughts had become numb and hazy. That was good. Everything about this was good.

He reached out and fondled Mycroft's ear, making his brother chuckle against his now rapidly opening and closing hole. Sherlock smiled. Big brother knew what he needed. And he would always give it to him.

His cock was throbbing, standing up from his groin. He grabbed it and yanked at it, and then he almost hit Mycroft's face when he, in a sudden urge of sheer need, hooked his hands in his knee pits and pulled his legs up, making his hole stretch wider – a literally open invitation for his lover to get on with it. The look on Mycroft's face at this wanton gesture was one Sherlock would store in his mind palace. A look of amazement, shock, amusement and greed.

He gasped when Mycroft all but plunged his face into his crack, his tongue going to work again frantically now, sending sparks of pleasure through the bottom half of Sherlock's body. And then he finally got rid of the towel that had covered his own intimate parts, his cock standing straight – a proud, large spear of love, ready to claim him.

“Why are you smirking?” Mycroft asked with playfully raised eyebrows while he reached out for the bottle of lubricant he had discarded on the mattress.

Sherlock knew very well that his brother had liked to see him smile. Mycroft didn't miss anything, especially no John-related gloominess. “Can’t tell you. Too embarrassing.”

Mycroft smiled at his grin and shook his head. “Hiding secrets from me?” He coated his penis with the weirdly smelling fluid and worked some more of it into Sherlock's canal.

“No. Not one,” Sherlock said after eliciting a loud moan. And he didn't. There was no reason for secrets between them anymore. “Come on. Give me your love-spear,” he added then, chuckling, and Mycroft threw his head back and laughed out loud.

“Yes, my beautiful princess. Your dark knight will give you his mighty love-spear.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh, even though he tried, unsuccessfully, to glower at his lover. “Do I look like a princess?” he asked sternly then, grabbing his plump cock. How great that felt – not just to be touched and soon fucked by his man. To be able to joke when fifteen minutes ago his heart had felt heavy.

He knew he should forget about John. Mycroft would definitely appreciate it. And it would probably be the wisest thing to do. But he couldn’t. John had changed, yes. But when he thought of him, he still saw the friend of the old days, always willing to wade in and save his arse. He couldn’t drop him. But the reality as it stood now made him sad.

And Mycroft always succeeded in cheering him up.

“No, my lord,” Mycroft crooned. “Very big cock indeed.”

“Not as big as yours. Give it to me, my knight in rusty armour.”

“Brat.”

“That’s right. Your brat.”

“Always?” Mycroft tilted his head, and there was so much emotion in his blue eyes that Sherlock had to swallow.

“Of course. Always.”

And Mycroft smiled at him, bent over to kiss him, and then proceeded to slide into him.

*****

At first, Sherlock clung to Mycroft, who was taking him the way they both loved – with deep but careful strokes, increasing the pace just a bit. Mycroft bent down to nibble at Sherlock's neck and take his earlobe between his lips before he claimed his mouth in an excitingly possessive kiss.

When he pulled back to grab Sherlock's legs in order to change the angle of penetration and take him harder, their eyes met, and something incredible happened – they started a silent conversation with their eyes, deducing each other and sending messages nobody else would understand.

_[Nobody gets me like you do._

_Thank you for everything you do for me._

_Even if everybody else turns their back on you, I’ll still be there._

_I love you and even though I sometimes get sad about other things, what we have will always mean the most to me._

_Caring might not be an advantage, but loving you is._

_You will never allow anyone to take me away from you, right?_

_Damn right._

_You’re beautiful._

_You’re gorgeous._

_You are mine. Never forget that._

_Ditto, brother mine.]_

There was sentiment – so much sentiment. And a lot of these messages would never be put in actual words, but allowing the other one to see them was fine.

Mycroft’s hips were moving rapidly now, hammering into Sherlock's arse. His eyes were not leaving him for a single second to make sure that he was enjoying himself and not feeling any real pain. Sherlock wondered if they would ever change roles in this. But even if they didn’t, he would never get tired of watching Mycroft gradually come apart while fucking him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips wet and a bit sore from their kissing, and his eyes were dazed. Sweat was glistening in his rich chest hair, his nipples were erect and poking through the fur, and Sherlock reached up to manipulate them and roll them between his fingers.

It was the last push that Mycroft had needed to reach his crisis. He moaned in this trademark Mycroftian way and hefty spurts of come erupted deep inside Sherlock's body, and for a crazy moment Sherlock imagined that his brother would impregnate him with his semen, producing a little Holmes child with their combined intelligence and incompatibility with the masses, a child with black hair and blue eyes and the ability to rule the world, free it from criminal elements and solve every puzzle under the sun. The image felt so real that Sherlock almost believed this was possible when he too came in violent spurts, and then he grinned about his own craziness, but it also felt like some kind of loss, and he cuddled up against Mycroft's chest when his brother had lain down next to him and pulled him in.

“Anything wrong?” the older man asked, concerned.

Sherlock smiled against his cool, damp chest. “No, course not. I just imagined how our child would be.”

“Our… what?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I didn’t hit my head or go mental. It was just a mad little thought.”

“And we both know where it came from… Do you… regret it?”

Sherlock raised his head to look at him. “Regret what? Having listened to my friends or whatever they are now talking about their unforgettable night of drunken sex? Yes.” He’d never want to hear another word about it for as long as he lived.

Mycroft smiled but his eyes got serious a moment later. “You know what I mean. We… can't have that. I can’t offer you, well, offspring, in whichever way. A family.”

“Mycroft, it is very debatable if such a child would be a particularly good idea. It would be rather unbearable.” When Sherlock saw that Mycroft was really worried, he shook his head. “I don't want that, Mycroft, even if it was medically possible without something as ghastly as a surrogate mother. What the hell should we do with a child? I can barely look after myself and you are busy with running the country and getting me out of trouble. I’m not missing anything.”

“Even though all I can give you is a love that may only happen in this house? In the shadows?”

Sherlock tapped his forefinger on his brother’s remarkable nose. “Loving you in the dark is a million times better than trying to cope with a goldfish in broad daylight. There is nobody else I ever wanted. Besides, we are both rather shadowy figures.”

“Hm. And black suits us best.”

“Very true. You look gorgeous in black. Well, you look gorgeous in anything,” Sherlock corrected himself. “And I love this outfit best.” He played with a wiry curl of chest hair.

“Likewise, brother mine. No regrets?” Mycroft stroked over his cheek.

In fact, Sherlock had quite a few regrets… Like not having realised what a gem his brother was decades ago. Treating him worse than an enemy for longer than he wanted to remember. But he definitely didn’t regret being with him. “None, Mycroft. Apart from wishing we could have had this earlier.”

Mycroft smiled. “I don't think either of us would have been ready for this before we, dramatically put, went through the particularly nasty hell of Sherrinford together.”

“Yes. I guess so. But we will have to make up for all the lost time.” He gave his lover a promising – or was it threatening? – wink.

“Dear me,” Mycroft said with fake desperation.

“I’ll get us something to drink,” Sherlock offered. “And then we will get in the mood for round two. Then three, then four…”

“Somebody please save me!”

“Nobody will, Mycroft. You’re all mine and at my mercy.” Sherlock tilted his head to kiss Mycroft's smiling mouth, and Sherlock felt ridiculously happy, knowing that he wasn’t missing out on anything anymore.

####  Decisions And Consequences

When Sherlock had told his brother that Mrs Hudson had obviously figured out the nature of their blooming relationship, Mycroft had looked terrified for a moment before he had sighed and asked if Sherlock found it likely that she would report them to the authorities. Sherlock had thought of his landlady’s marriage to a drug lord and her favour for driving way too fast and consuming weird-smelling tea and had grinned and asked him if he was serious. And that had been that. Mrs Hudson had spared him ever mentioning it, which he was grateful for, and when she caught him coming home in the morning after another night spent with his brotherly lover, she only allowed herself a happy little smile and offered him tea – Earl Grey, usually.

He would have opted for coffee this morning, he thought when he had left the tube and was walking the street to start his day in 221B. His head was a bit dizzy and he was still tired. And there was this prickling in his nose that was announcing a cold. So first coffee, then tea… He really didn’t want to get ill. Mycroft would hardly want to kiss him if his nose was snotty…

Probably he would cuddle up in his bed when he’d had breakfast. He had left Mycroft’s house without having eaten anything as it had simply been too early for him. His brother had needed to get up at an ungodly time for a secret meeting with an important figure of a government that was not theirs. They had not even managed another round of sex. But Sherlock had to admit he would have hardly felt like it.

Perhaps his condition had made him less aware of his surroundings. Perhaps he would have noticed the black car that was driving next to him earlier. But of course it wouldn’t have changed anything but sparing him getting startled when it stopped and a man in a black suit graciously stepped onto the pavement. “Mr Holmes,” he greeted him, and Sherlock deduced him within seconds, dizzy brain or not.

Handsome in a dull way. Black hair, cut yesterday, brown eyes, not a hint of stubble on his chin. In his early thirties. Some sort of assistant but highly educated. No family, no pets. A creature that lived for work and work alone. And this work was taking place in some kind of official surrounding. No criminal. Quite the opposite – he was working for the authorities.

Sherlock's throat got dry. Nobody but Mrs Hudson had figured this out. Nobody could have given them away… He was standing stock still now and he felt all the signs of an approaching panic attack.

“Are you all right, Mr Holmes?” the younger man asked him, making a step towards him. “I’m really sorry to attack you like this but… you need to come with me.”

“Where?” Sherlock croaked but his pulse was already beating slower now. This man was not here to arrest him. What a stupid conclusion had this been. And the dark-haired man’s next words confirmed his deduction.

“Your help is required. Please get into the car and come with me.”

It was a case. “Where?” Sherlock asked again, his head throbbing now but feeling relieved to an extent that hopefully did not show on his face.

“I will tell you in the car. Please?”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, thinking of his alluring bed and coffee. And then he climbed into the black limousine.

*****

What an irony… Sherlock was back in North London only minutes after he had left it. Well, this time he had arrived in more style for sure. He had even been offered some really good coffee in the car. He felt a bit more awake now, but it had not helped with his throbbing head.

Following the man who had introduced himself as Dominic Fuller, he crossed the pathway of the large property of Lord and Lady Mellington. The vast garden to both sides was an explosion of flowers and bees and butterflies. There were cameras installed at all the strategically sensible places. The gate had been locked in three different ways. There was somebody very aware of being in danger.

The name had not rung a bell. If he had ever heard it, he had deleted it – Lady Isabel Mellington, forty-two, married to the CEO of Mellington Consulting, a company Sherlock had also never heard of. Lady Isabel had been working as a crown prosecutor since 2011. Her mission was fighting organised crime in London.

The house was huge. Cool. Neat. Not pompous but functional. Sherlock looked around in the high hallway. Everything was white and sterile – the walls, the boards. No shoes next to the door. No coats hanging at the wardrobe. A high contrast to the oasis that was the garden.

“Please. Lady Isabel is awaiting us in the parlour.”

Sherlock nodded and walked behind the assistant, taking in his surroundings. He had entered his case modus. Disturbed by the increasing feeling of being physically unwell, he still gathered as much data as he could.

The woman who looked up to him when he entered the room, sitting on a chair with a very straight back, looked younger than her years. She was wearing a light-blue blouse and a tight, black skirt. High heels. Her hair was tied into a decidedly feminine knot. Her makeup was subtle but perfectly done. Her full lips were pressed together, the only sign of worry on her attractive face. A cold fish, Sherlock decided. A woman who would stop at nothing to reach her goals, and she had plenty. A future judge, maybe. Or a political career at a later point in her life. A woman not to be messed with.

The man at her side, the husband, obviously, was a mess. He had not had a minute of sleep during the previous night. His shirt was not buttoned up correctly and was hanging out of his crumpled trousers on one side. His red-blond hair looked as if he had been constantly ruffling it in agony. Still he was the one to address Sherlock. He had not been sitting but pacing the room and now he hurried to him to shake his hand. “Mr Holmes. Thank God you’re here. You must help us.”

Sherlock nodded. “No problem.” His throat was sore and his voice showed it. “Can I have a glass of water perhaps?”

“Of course! Dom, could you be so kind?”

“In a second, my lord.” The assistant left the room to get Sherlock the water.

“So,” the detective said. “Tell me what happened. Mr Fuller said…”

“...our daughter is missing!” the lord burst out. “You must find her!”

“That’s why I’m here. But where is the police?”

“We don’t need the police,” Lady Isabel spoke for the first time. Her voice was completely calm and if there was emotion in it, it was barely suppressed anger. “Victoria has been kidnapped by her father.”

Sherlock glanced at the lord involuntarily but of course there was not much doubt that the crown prosecutor was not talking about him.

“Her biological father,” the lady corrected.

Sherlock sat down after accepting the glass the assistant had brought him before leaving them alone again. “Tell me everything.”

The lady nodded and took a deep breath, and in the next fifteen minutes, she told him a remarkable story, interrupted by the sobs of the man who was not the girl’s father, and Sherlock listened closely, urging her on with rapidly fired-off questions.

*****

Sherlock was sitting in the comfortable chair, his hands forming a reverse ‘V’ under his chin. He glanced at the letter on the table again. The paper was crumpled. Victoria’s mother had cramped her hand around it when she had found it in the mail. The morning after her daughter had disappeared.

She had not come home from her piano lesson. Not for the first time. More than once she had stayed away overnight without telling anyone about her whereabouts. She was a difficult child, Lady Isabel had said. Always rebelling, always searching for confrontation. At least with her nanny and her mother. She had been much nicer to the lord.

Ten-year-old Victoria had not known that the lord was not her actual dad. Nobody had known it. Nobody but the lord himself and now her PA as well.

‘ _He brought me the mail and saw the letter. But he will never tell anyone. He is very loyal.’_

Sherlock had nodded at the lady’s statement and had only fleetingly thought of the man about whom he would have said the same thing for many years before he had dismissed this silly distraction and focused on the case again. He had not noticed anything suspicious about the secretary, other than the fact that he was clearly in love with the crown prosecutor. In a shy, almost cute way. Sherlock didn’t think that he had anything to do with the letter or the kidnapping of Victoria Mellington.

He took the letter again with his gloved hand. It was a computer printout. Cheap paper. Nothing remarkable about it. No way to trace it back. It said:

 _We’ve got your brat_.

_In three days from now, she will be dead._

_But you can save her. Just tell the world who her real father is._

_No police._

“I don’t see why you’re so sure that your… That Victoria’s real father is behind all this.” Sherlock saw the lord wince. He clearly loved this child as if it was his own. But after all, he had already been married to her mother when she was born.

The lady tightened her jaw. “I told you. I don’t like to repeat myself.”

“Issy…” the lord whispered. “Please.”

She sighed. “Nobody knows that I ever met him. Let alone have a child with him. He has never seen Victoria. And he and his fine family are the only ones to profit from me telling the truth.” She leaned forward. “It will destroy everything. My life’s work. My reputation. A crown prosecutor who has fucked with a high-profile member of the Irish mob. Got his baby. I’ll be finished, and that’s what he wants.”

“How can he know that you are close to arresting his brother?” Sherlock asked.

The lady rolled her eyes. “This is the mafia, Mr Holmes. They have their eyes and ears everywhere.” She leaned back again. “He wants to discredit me. Turn me into the joke of the city. I’ll be finished. So I won’t do it, and I told this son of a…” She broke off with her eyes sparkling with wrath.

Sherlock could imagine her phone call with the Irish mobster very well…

“You must, Issy. It was eleven years ago. You were not what you…”

“That doesn’t matter!” she interrupted her husband. “The public loves such stories.” She shook her head. “Nothing will happen to Victoria. For those people, family is everything. They would never kill a child. They actually don’t kill anyone if it’s not really necessary. It’s not this family’s style. I bet they’ve locked her up in one of their countless houses and she’s watching TV and eating ice cream now.” Her tone clearly said _, ‘And I don't know what we need you for. She’ll come home anyway.’_

It had been the lord who had insisted on doing something. On trying to find Victoria. He had only come home late the previous night from a business trip. Certainly horrified that his wife had not even informed him that their child had been taken away two days ago, he had tried to talk some sense into her, telling her that they couldn’t just do nothing to get Victoria back. They had debated it. As a crown prosecutor, the lady had the best connections to Scotland Yard. But she hadn't wanted to even consider informing anyone and the lord had not wanted to risk that, either. Sherlock had been the compromise. Dominic Fuller had made him sign a contract in the car, forcing him to keep silent about the details of this case. Usually Sherlock would have laughed in his face and gotten out of the car, but the case had intrigued him.

“I will have to talk to Mickey Richardsen,” he said now.

“We know that,” Lord Mellington answered before his wife could protest. “You will see if he really is behind this. We don’t have any more time to lose.”

Sherlock would immediately talk to Bill Wiggins. They had to mobilise his homeless network. Victoria had last been seen by her piano teacher. A man with whom Sherlock also had to talk of course. The girl didn’t have any friends. At school, she was an outcast. She had not been bullied – she had done the bullying. Sherlock had seen a photograph of her, which would be copied and shown around by the least offensive members of his network. A beautiful child with freckles and long, strawberry-blonde hair. Her large blue eyes spoke of high intelligence and the tendency for mischief.

He got up. “I want to have a look at her room.”

“What for?” Isabel asked. “She’s not hiding under her bed.”

“I need to get a feeling for her. It’s how I work.”

“Of course you can see her room,” the lord said, squeezing his wife’s shoulder. “Will you find our Vicky?” the lord asked Sherlock then, pleadingly.

Sherlock felt dizzy again. He resisted the urge to reach up to his temples and massage them. It would look unprofessional and it wouldn’t help anyway. He needed more caffeine and strong painkillers. “I will do my best.”

*****

The tall, broad man in the giant black chair regarded Sherlock with a mixture of amusement and mocking concern. He was about ten years older than the crown prosecutor but in very good shape and he had only a hint of grey in his full red hair. “The famous Sherlock Holmes. Never thought I’d meet you in person. What an honour.” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Do sit down. You don’t look very well.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock really wasn’t. But he had a case to solve. And so far, he had not gotten very far.

He had spoken with the piano teacher, a small, almost feminine-looking man who had looked up to him in desperation. His eyes had still been small from being woken up from deep sleep.

“ _I have no idea what happened to Vicky, Mr Holmes. When she left, she was smiling and in a good mood and…”_ He had even started to sob.

 _Gay. Shy. No threat. No kidnapper._ He had confirmed what the parents had said – Victoria didn’t get along with other little girls so she didn’t have any friends she might have confided in regarding having possibly met the kidnapper before. She was rude and always willing to expose and exploit the weaknesses of others. She had seemed to like her teacher though. This man wouldn’t harm a fly and certainly never think of kidnapping a girl he obviously genuinely liked as well. And he couldn’t know that the lord wasn’t her real father anyway.

In her school, nobody had been able to help Sherlock, either. He had spoken to two of her teachers, who hadn’t seemed to be very concerned about her disappearance. Sherlock had not mentioned the letter though. He had only told them that the girl had not come home.

He had spoken with Bill Wiggins again. His people had not found a trace of the little girl.

At ten, he had thought it was time to speak with Victoria’s father. He was residing in an equally impressive house as the Mellingtons. Crime paid out, obviously… The Richardsen family was involved in all the classic mob activities, and Mickey was high in their ranks. How had this even happened? The sophisticated Isabel, sharing a bed with this man? As roughly attractive and well dressed as he was – he was a criminal and had been one when they had produced Victoria.

“What did the lovely Isabel tell you about our remarkable time together?” Mickey asked, grinning.

Sherlock sipped at the coffee he had been granted with. “Not much. A mistake, she said.”

Mickey laughed. “Yeah. I bet. She was drunk, Mr Holmes, as she had just lost her job and her boyfriend had left her, too. Desperate and drunk. Well, I was drunk too, I’m Irish. But not desperate.”

Sherlock winced, inevitably thinking of John and Molly. He schooled his expression quickly. “Did she know who you were?”

“Not at first.” Mickey smiled smugly. “At first I was just a handsome man with charisma. That’s what the papers called me once. And when she found out… she wasn’t even that shocked. And the second time, she was sober.”

“Wait, what? It was more than this one time?” The lady had been rather sparse with information regarding her, if one wanted to call it that, relationship with the mobster. Sherlock did understand that but he didn't exactly like to be lied to or left in the dark by his clients. It was not theirs to decide if certain pieces of information were important for solving their case.

“Oh yes. We hooked up about five or six times. Then I didn’t see her until she told me she’s pregnant.” Mickey fumbled a package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his designer jacket and offered it to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“No, thanks. I quit.”

“Yeah. Me too. Again and again…” Mickey winked and lit the cigarette, rolling his eyes in pleasure at the first pull. “Listen, Mr Holmes. I can spare you plenty of time. I don’t have the girl. I never met her. I have four children with my wife and that’s plenty. And Isabel was very thorough at telling me that I won’t have a say in her daughter’s life.” He leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak in protest. “She’s a cold fish, Mr Holmes. She wasn’t when we had our little affair but when I see her on telly now, getting all worked up about criminal organisations…” He shuddered theatrically. “I wouldn’t touch her now.”

“She doesn’t think it’s personal. She thinks you want to destroy her reputation so she can’t prosecute your family anymore.”

Mickey sighed. “That’s total nonsense and you know it. Fine, it might make her look a tiny bit corrupt. But even if she loses her job – the next one will do exactly the same, and I might have been around the block but I hardly slept with all the crown prosecutors. I draw the line at men anyway…” He stubbed the cigarette. “If anyone has really kidnapped the girl, it was certainly not me. Or my brother, if this would have been your next guess. He has no idea that she even exists.”

“And your wife?” He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, Sherlock realised.

“She passed away two months ago.” Mickey didn’t sound overly sad so Sherlock refrained from saying anything to this. “You need to go on looking, Mr Holmes, because I don’t have Victoria.”

Sherlock nodded. “I might have to talk to you again.”

“I can’t wait,” Mickey assured him dryly. “Better get some rest, too. You look pretty knackered.”

“I will sleep when I’ve solved the case.”

“Ah, you stubborn young people. Find her, Mr Holmes,” he added, his voice darker. “I don’t like this.”

Sherlock didn't like it any better…

And when he had just left the mobster’s property, he got a phone call that sounded rather promising.

*****

The Mellingtons spoke simultaneously.

“I have no idea if that’s hers,” said the lady. She looked as impeccable as she had done in the morning. Not a hair out of place, her makeup flawless.

“Oh my God, that’s Vicky’s! Where did you find it?” shouted the lord. He looked even more tousled than when Sherlock had last seen him.

Sherlock looked down at the hair clip in the transparent plastic bag. He had nicked a dozen of them from the Met a few weeks ago. “In a warehouse. But Victoria was not there,” he added at once when Peter Mellington gasped.

Sherlock sat down with them and told them about the car that had been seen in East London three days ago. A girl had been sitting on the passenger’s seat, a girl who had resembled their daughter. A tall man with red hair had been driving the car – but the witness had only fleetingly saw him and couldn’t say if it had been Mickey Richardsen. And of course they didn't have the registration number of the plain, black car. But they had seen that it was driving in the direction of a couple of shabby warehouses. Sherlock and three members of his homeless network had searched them. They had found lots of rubbish and all kinds of things, but then Bill had stumbled across this clip – pink, with butterflies.

“I’m on it. I’ll find her,” Sherlock said with more confidence that he was really feeling.

In fact, he felt frankly awful. The pain killers had not helped a lot; he was tired and exhausted and he assumed that he was about to develop a full-on sinusitis. He had asked Wiggins to go on searching before calling Richardsen again, who had said, sounding a tad annoyed, that his company had plenty of black cars but so had others, and that he was hardly the only redhead in London.

Sherlock had texted with Mycroft as well, telling him that he was on a case. Mycroft would have to attend a late meeting so they wouldn’t be able to meet in the evening, which was fine considering Sherlock's condition. He had not told Mycroft about it. Hopefully, he would be feeling better the next day. And if not, Mycroft would certainly insist on seeing him so he could attend to him. But neither of them could do this today. So he would go home to Baker Street to get some rest before trying to figure out what else they could do.

“I can call the Yard,” he offered once more.

“No way. No police, the letter said.” Lady Mellington’s voice was strident. “Tomorrow she’ll be back, you’ll see,” she said to her husband. “If you excuse me now – I have to do some work.”

The two men watched her leave the room.

“It’s not as if she didn’t love Vicky,” the lord said in an apologetic tone. “She’s not the typical mum who knows everything about her daughter but… she means a lot to her.”

Sherlock wondered whom he actually wanted to convince. He nodded. “Think about it. I will continue to search for her but the police have a lot more possibilities. And they could inform the public so…”

“Issy will never agree to that, and neither will she prepare a public declaration like they told her to,” Peter Mellington said, darkly, and Sherlock knew that he was right.

He excused himself and left the house on legs that were a little bit shaky. It was 6 pm and he had not eaten a lot today.

When he arrived in Baker Street – Mrs Hudson had gone out as it seemed – he managed to make himself a sandwich before he fell asleep on the couch.

*****

“Hey…”

Groggily, Sherlock tried to open his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. How late it was. Who had been speaking to him and squeezing his shoulder. But he figured that out when he finally saw something again. “John… What…”

“My shift in the clinic is over and I… I don't know. Thought I’d have a look if you are there and then I saw light and… You don't look good. You need anything?”

“It’s just a cold. Oh, God…” Sherlock had glanced at his phone. 1 am. The deadline was over. He checked his messages. Nothing from Bill. Some missed calls – the Mellingtons. Mycroft… How deep had he been sleeping? He still felt dizzy and slightly disoriented. And that bloody headache was still there.

“Was pretty ghastly to you when we spoke on the phone,” John continued. He looked every bit as exhausted as Sherlock was feeling, the detective realised. Swollen eyes, a stubble that was older than a day, his clothing crumpled. “Things are… not easy. You know what I mean.”

“No problem. I’m glad you are here.” And he was. He and John in Baker Street. It felt like old times. _‘Just the two of us against the rest of the world’_ was echoing through his mind – his words to John when they had met after his return from Serbia. And even though he knew it wasn’t like this anymore, because now there was Mycroft, and John wouldn’t stay, and even though the memory was not really a good one as he had received a blow by John after saying this and it had not even been true anymore when he had said it because of Mary and John being hurt by having been deceived, it gave him a strangely fuzzy feeling.

They shared a smile and then Sherlock almost threw his phone away when it started to vibrate in his hand. News about the case?

“It's Greg,” he told John after looking at the screen, and the doctor nodded.

“A case, most certainly. But you're hardly in the condition to take it.”

But Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile and answered his phone. And grew cold when he heard what Lestrade had for him.

A body had been found. Strangled and thrown into the Thames.

A child.

A girl.

With red-blonde hair.

He heard himself telling Lestrade that he was on the way. He did not say anything else. When he had ended the connection, feeling numb, John nodded at him.

“I won’t let you go alone, Sherlock. You belong in bed, not at a crime scene. So if you insist on going there, I’ll at least accompany you, if Lestrade wants me there or not.”

Sherlock was unable to answer so he settled for a nod, and then he got up on shaky legs to get ready to look at yet another corpse.

Perhaps it was someone else.

But he knew it wasn't. He had fucked up.

*****

The last time Sherlock had felt so… otherworldly had been in the hollow, searching for the hound of Baskerville. The scenery was creepy. The total darkness and the fog of the Thames shore was illuminated by a dozen reflectors. Cops were running around, searching for evidence. He saw Lestrade and Donovan quietly talk to each other. Heard barked orders in the silence. A scene out of a horror movie. And somewhere, the protagonist was waiting for him. Victoria Mellington.

Without exchanging a word, Sherlock and John approached the crime scene. John had tried to make conversation in the cab but Sherlock had hardly been able to bring out a word. It was chilly and uncomfortable and Sherlock was freezing in his coat, which was not only to blame on the temperatures.

Sherlock saw Lestrade’s eyes widen in surprise when he saw John next to him. Of course… John had obviously been with him in the middle of the night so what would he think? To which stupid conclusions would he jump?

“Hi, Greg,” he said before Lestrade could say anything nasty.

“Hi, Sherlock, thanks for coming. John.”

“Greg.” John sounded calm and Sherlock felt grateful that this wasn’t starting with a row. But that was the only thing he felt grateful for now…

“God, Sherlock.” Lestrade had eyed him more closely, probably searching for signs he would not find. “You look horrible.”

“It’s just a cold. I’m fi-…” Sherlock broke off as he saw her. Lying on the shore, her dead eyes staring up in the star-sparkling sky. Her hair was mostly gone. Someone had cut it off. In anger, it seemed. Her neck bore strangulation marks. There was dirt all over her swollen face. She didn’t look as if she was sleeping. She looked as if she was cursing him from the other side for letting her down. He felt like throwing up and his knees had seemed to turn to jelly.

“We have no idea who she is,” Lestrade said next to him. “There are no matches in our missing-children database. I guess…”

“I know who she is.” Sherlock's voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Victoria Mellington. Her father called her Vicky. But he wasn’t her real father.”

“Sherlock, what? You’re not making any sense.”

Sherlock felt Lestrade’s gloved hand on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. “She was kidnapped. Her parents… Her mother is a crown prosecutor. Isabel Mellington.”

“Damn, I’ve met her! That’s her daughter? Bloody hell! But how do you… God… They came to you…”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, and then he did his best to tell Lestrade and John the story of a case he had not been able to solve. Unable to meet anyone’s gaze or looking at the girl that would never grow up to be a woman, he was staring at his shoes, his head feeling dizzier than ever.

“Damn…” Lestrade sounded horrified. Then he pulled out his phone. “I’ll call them.”

Sherlock felt a tear in his eye. He nodded. “Tell them…” He broke off. Nothing he could have said would make this any better.

Lestrade patted his shoulder before walking away from them.

Sherlock rubbed at his face, wishing he was with Mycroft now. Cuddled up against his brother’s warm body, safe in his arms. A weird feeling crept up his spine when he heard a weird noise behind his back. Then he realised that it had been John, chuckling but not in an amused way.

“The great Sherlock Holmes.”

Slowly, Sherlock turned to him, his throat getting dry.

“Thinking he can do it all alone. Better than the police.”

“They didn’t want to inform the police,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yeah.” John nodded. “And you didn’t exactly try to convince them to do otherwise because you think you’re so much smarter. Are you happy now?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “The girl’s dead because of your fucking huge ego!”

Sherlock made a step backwards and then he remembered that there was a corpse lying on the ground and he almost got sick at the thought that he could have stepped on the dead girl. “It wasn’t like this…”

“And you’re ill and walking around like a zombie, but still you didn’t get anyone to help!”

“I told you that Bill Wiggins and…”

“Why didn’t you call _me_?!” John was vibrating with wrath now.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over to Lestrade. He was still on the phone and his face was grim. Telling parents that their child had been found dead had to be the hardest thing to do for a cop. “I… I thought you…” He broke off. In fact, he hadn’t even considered calling John. John with his job and his baby. And there had been so many people on it already.

“I'll tell you why not,” continued the doctor, slowly coming closer. “Because you knew I would insist on informing Lestrade and you didn’t want that because you don’t need anyone. Alone is what protects you, right? Still is.”

“No, John. I…”

“It’s your fault! You killed her!” Now John was screaming, and Sherlock could see heads turning. “Like you killed Mary, you fucking son of a bitch! It’s always about you and what you want and need and you give a fucking rat’s arse about other people! I hate you!” And with this he stormed forward and Sherlock groaned in pain and agony when John’s fist connected with his left eye and he fell backwards onto the wet corpse of the girl he had not been able to save. Retching and trying to protect his face, he tried to crawl away but John grabbed him to rip him up – and then he was pulled back and thrown onto the ground.

“Don’t you dare do this again.” Lestrade’s voice was dark with wrath. “Don’t move! Stay where you are, bastard! Donovan!”

Sherlock had managed to get on his hands and knees, away from the stinking corpse. _Stinking_ … God… He really had not been himself…

“Is that the kind of doctor you are?!” Lestrade thundered. “Hitting people! Hitting your so-called best friend – again! And what for? Don’t you see she’s been dead for at least two days? Sherlock didn’t even know about the kidnapping when she’d been killed, you fucking idiot!”

It was true. Sherlock had no idea how he had been able to miss the signs of decay. It didn’t take a pathologist to see that Victoria had been murdered right after having been kidnapped or at least not long after. It had always been too late for her…

Sergeant Donovan had reached John now but he shot up, his fist colliding with Greg’s chin. “You always excuse this arsehole! He killed my wife and ruined my life.”

Greg had stumbled backwards at the blow and John proceeded to attack him again, but then he was hit on the head with Donovan’s truncheon and fell forward, groaning. His hands were forced onto his back and Sherlock, horrified by all that was happening, saw Sally kick against his back to apply a pair of handcuffs. “You bloody wanker,” she mumbled, looking over to her boss with concern. “Are you all right, sir?”

Rubbing his chin, Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Get him in the car. You’re under arrest, Watson. I hope someone is looking after your daughter because you’re going to spend the night in prison.” He shook his head. “But you’ve got Molly for that.”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock whispered. “Since he’s knocked her up and left her, he’s not in her good books anymore…”

“You fucking arsehole!” John screeched, and Sherlock saw Greg’s jaw drop.

“He did what?!”

“She’s a slut and…” John groaned when he received another blow onto the back of his head.

“Sorry, sir,” Donovan said, shrugging. “It slipped out of my fingers.”

“It can slip again anytime,” hissed Lestrade.

It was a nightmare. An absurd, awful nightmare. Sherlock's head was hurting so much now that he feared it would explode any moment. The skin around his left eye was swollen and throbbing. He felt dizzier than he had ever felt before in his life. But that was nothing compared to the pain in his soul.

John hated him. He had never forgiven him for causing Mary’s death, as involuntary as it had been. He was a hateful, angry man. Still kneeling, Sherlock watched him getting dragged towards a police car, struggling and spitting out insults.

The tears started to flow. He sobbed uncontrollably when Lestrade kneeled down next to him, a clean handkerchief in his hand.

“Come here. Don’t cry for this piece of shit.” A warm arm embraced him and he buried his face against the crook of Greg’s neck, letting him wipe his face as if he was a child. Memories of all the good times he’d had with John wavered through his mind, and he cried even harder, knowing this had been the end of their friendship.

“It’s all right, dear boy. This time he’s going to face the consequences. Come, Sherlock. I’ll bring you home and tomorrow, when you feel better, I’ll visit you in Baker Street for the official testimony. About this case and John.”

“Bring me home,” Sherlock sobbed.

“Yes. I said, my lad.” Greg stroked over his hair, his eyes full of affection.

“Not Baker Street. Mycroft.” And then Sherlock cursed himself. What had he just said? Had he finally gone crazy?

For a moment, Greg froze in confusion. And then Sherlock could see the realisation in his eyes, and he could practically hear him think, _‘I should have gotten this before.’_

Then the inspector nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “Of course, Sherlock. I’ll bring you home to your brother.”

*****

“Dear God. What happened?” Mycroft hurried to get Sherlock into the house and stiffened when his brother was clinging around his neck the next second. Instinctively reaching up to wrap his arm around his brother’s waist, he stared at the man who was still standing outside, his cheekbone red and swollen, undoubtedly due to having connected with a fist.

And then he realised that there was only one explanation for Sherlock's black eye, Lestrade’s abused face and the condition in which his brother was.

“John…” He spat out the name like the curse this man was.

“Yeah. But don’t worry. He can cool himself down in prison tonight.” Lestrade’s tone was a mixture of grim satisfaction, glee and fury. “I’m sorry I didn’t get between them before he could hit Sherlock.”

Mycroft, still having an armful of sobbing baby brother, feeling hardly awake, looked down at Sherlock's face – as much as he could see it. How could he have been sleeping while Sherlock had been attacked by the arsehole of a doctor again? He had come home late from his meeting and tried to call Sherlock but he had not answered his phone. Which was not that unusual during an investigation. But he should have tried it again or gone looking for him. Again John Watson had harmed Sherlock and he had not been there to protect him. It made him feel sick. And very, very angry… “Did he kick him again, too?” He didn't think so as Sherlock had not moved as if he had cracked ribs or any other injuries.

“No. But I’m sure he would have.”

“Thank you for wading in,” Mycroft said, trying to finally get his senses back completely. He had been woken by the doorbell. “Do come in.”

“That’s nice of you but I need to return to the crime scene. Just wanted to make sure that Sherlock gets here safe and sound.”

 _He knows it…_ Sherlock had given them away. And Lestrade seemed to accept it. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice a bit shaky.

Lestrade gave him a smile that seemed to hurt him. “I know him in the best of hands now. But he’s feeling pretty ill. You mind if I come here to talk to him about the case tomorrow?”

“Not at all. What is wrong with him?” He would have asked Sherlock himself but his brother had sagged against him now, his eyes closed.

“A pretty bad cold. Maybe the flu. And the girl he was looking for – we found her, dead.”

All in all, baby brother had a truly horrible day… “Oh dear. I’ll get him into bed…” Mycroft broke off, feeling his cheeks flush.

But Greg Lestrade just smiled again. “Do that. I know that he is in the best of hands with you.”

And Mycroft nodded and gave him a look full of gratitude. For taking care of John Watson. For protecting baby brother. For bringing him home. And for accepting their forbidden relationship.

When Lestrade had left after a gentle squeeze of Sherlock's shoulder, he proceeded to put Sherlock to bed. He helped him undress and refreshed him with a warm flannel and put some balm onto his nasty-looking eye before he tucked him under the blanket and lay down next to him. Sherlock turned to him and he embraced him, pulling him against his chest.

“You’ll get it, too,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding heartbroken.

“I don’t mind. I’ll take care of you.”

“You’ve always done.” Sherlock's voice was so quiet that he could hardly understand him.

“And I always will,” Mycroft replied and kissed his forehead.

Little brother was where he belonged – in big brother’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case was inspired by Elizabeth George's novel "In The Presence Of The Enemy". There are many changes made to this case but what they do have in common is a mother who refuses to call the police because she fears for her reputation and the fact that the little girl dies in the end. The case, so much I will spoil, will not really be solved in this story. I am not good at writing case fics at all so I hope it wasn't too arduous!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue with jumps in time. In which John tries to redeem himself.

#### Sherlock And Greg

“Not a word.”

“Oooh,” Sherlock chuckled. “Had a date, hm?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Greg glowered at him but the sparkles in his eyes made it look unconvincing. “You’re here to solve a case.” He smoothed down his hair. It didn’t help a lot.

Sherlock walked around him, watching him with a smirk. “Hickeys suit you. A very eager wom-… No. It was _not_ a woman…” He had whispered the last words so nobody would overhear them. He wasn’t sure if Greg was willing to out himself, and even though his team was busy taking pictures and collecting evidence about ten metres away from them, he wouldn’t take the chance. Donovan was there after all. And she had even greeted him with a smile and hadn’t called him ‘freak’. She had stopped doing this and he had stopped teasing her with still sleeping with the still married Anderson. They were on good terms these days, Sally and he.

Greg looked a bit embarrassed. “Fine. It was a bloke. And I will see him again. Happy now?”

Sherlock smiled, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m happy if you’re happy.”

Greg laughed. “Getting sentimental in your old age?”

“Getting gay in your old age?” retorted Sherlock, winking.

“Nah. Bi, I guess. But he’s… pretty nice.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s all that matters. Just don’t get your heart broken.”

Greg smiled. “I’ll try my best. What do you reckon – if I had discovered these… tendencies ten years ago… Would you have been available?”

“What?! Don’t let a certain someone hear that.”

“Certainly not. Just kidding.”

But Greg hadn’t sounded as if he had been joking. Not entirely. “No, Greg. I think I was always meant for one man even though I didn’t know it.”

“God, that’s romantic.” Greg didn’t look hurt. “It’s great to see you happy. You… haven’t met another certain someone since…”

“No. I didn’t.” Sherlock fought back the sadness that threatened to creep up on him when he thought of John.

He had left London and lived near Ipswich now with Rosie and a dog, Molly had said. He worked in a private doctor’s office which he shared with another GP so he only had to work half a day and could take care of Rosie himself in the afternoon. Once a month, he came to London to visit Charlotte, the daughter he had with Molly. He would bring Rosie, too, of course, and the two half-sisters seemed to like each other a lot, if one could say for sure with toddlers. Sometimes Molly took Charlotte and visited him, too. When Sherlock had asked her lately how she and John were getting along, she had just rolled her eyes, and he had not asked any further questions.

Shaking off thoughts that didn’t lead anywhere, he focused on the case instead. A young man with his head bashed in, lying in the grass like a manhandled puppet.

For some reason, he reminded Sherlock of the case he had not been able to solve. He had, when he had been feeling better two days after they had found Victoria, deduced that only one of the children of the mobster could have done it. Obviously, their late mother had known about the child and when she had been dead – and her death had been claimed to be an accident in the tub, which had looked very suspicious – one of the three brothers, or even their sister, had decided to take revenge on the woman who had gotten a baby from their father. But Sherlock had no idea which of the siblings could have been the culprit. Maybe it had been more than one. They had been interrogated and of course denied everything. They had given each other alibis that were neither convincing nor disprovable. Mickey had paid for a very good lawyer and these young adults – the eldest had been twenty-five, the youngest eighteen – had stayed totally calm and indifferent. The true offspring of a man without a conscience but lots of charisma.

It still irked Sherlock. He had not seen Victoria’s parents again, just called them, and the lord had been inconsolable but had thanked him for his help. The public had never found out that there had been an attempt at blackmailing the crown prosecutor. Nor that the lord had not been Victoria’s biological father. The only comfort was, Sherlock assumed, that the child had died before anyone could have done anything about it. Fine, perhaps if Isabel Mellington had reacted straight after her daughter had not come home, there would have been a chance. But nobody could say for sure. The Met had not found out where the child had been located before being killed and thrown into the Thames. They had not found the car the witness had seen. Nobody could say when exactly Vicky had died. Perhaps she had been dead half an hour after having been kidnapped…

Greg was watching Sherlock with a knowing look – and deep affection. “There are things we can’t change anything about.”

Sherlock nodded. Yes. Like an unsolvable case. Or a friendship that had meant so much and ended in pain and disaster. He straightened his back and shut out his environment to solely focus on the case.

#### The Watson-Hooper Family

Molly hurried to leave the train, carrying Charlotte, her carriage and all the stuff she had to burden herself with for a weekend in this godforsaken little village she would be spending the weekend at. The annoyed looks of the other passengers were burning holes into her back.

Charlotte had screamed all the way here from London. She was almost always crying. She hardly spoke – all she stammered was ‘eat’ and ‘Lulu’ (the name of John’s dog) and ‘Dada’. Not ‘Mummy’ or any variety of the word… And she only saw her dad (and the dog) once or twice a month… It was very hard not to think that she didn’t even count for her daughter, Molly thought bitterly.

Of course John hadn’t come to pick them up. Trying not to scream at the grumpy child, she dragged herself and all the stuff towards the only cab that was waiting next to the station.

“Ah, Miss Hooper,” the driver greeted her, smiling at her with a mouth that only showed half of the usual amount of teeth. “Back in our beautiful town! Let me help you.”

At least someone who did… Well, of course she had help with Charlotte. She had long returned to work and without Mrs Hudson, Charlotte would have spent all the time in day care. Molly knew very well that it was only the old lady’s good heart that made her help her out. She hated John. Like Lestrade did. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about his former best friend but she could still see the flicker of sadness in his eyes when she mentioned John. Otherwise, he seemed to be pretty happy these days. He was obviously seeing someone but she hadn’t asked him about it. She didn’t want to hear anything about Sherlock being with someone else…

When they had finally arrived at John’s little house – he had rented it, not bought it – she was greeted by the poodle-whatever mixture that John had gotten from a shelter. A very lively, very happy little dog that loved everybody, especially Charlotte. Molly put the wriggling child onto the ground so Charlotte could properly greet her best – and only – friend, and she was looking at them with a rare smile when the door opened and John came out, holding Rosie at the hand.

“Hi Molls. God, how big have you become!” He grabbed the toddler and threw it in the air while Rosie was cuddling the dog, and Charlotte laughed and screeched.

She looked like John… The same big nose, thin lips and dark-blue eyes. She did have Molly’s hair but otherwise, she was a miniature version of her father. An ugly child, so different from her half-sister, who got prettier with every month that passed. Not that it would have helped if she had looked more like Molly, the pathologist thought, grimly. Charlotte was a total loser in the genes-lottery… She had obviously also inherited her parents' tendency for melancholy and outbursts of anger.

Molly felt as if she had travelled twice around the world instead of sitting in the train for not even an hour. So she was grateful when she could finally sit down.

John made a fuss about the children, who had been put onto the floor to play with their respective dolls while Lulu was running around them, licking every little face she could reach with her long, pink tongue. Rosie was a very nice older sister, always sharing her toys with Charlotte and making sure that she didn’t hurt herself.

The name had been Molly’s choice. John had grimaced. “Sounds a bit like you-know-who,” he had said, and she had winced, not having realised before that the name did resemble the name of the man she loved and would always love. “You could have as well picked ‘Sherlock’,” John had added. “He said it’s a girl’s name…”

John had spent that night after attacking Sherlock and Greg in prison. Molly still wondered why they had not further prosecuted his violent assault but she assumed that Greg had decided to let it rest so it would spare Sherlock the trouble and pain that would have caused him. John had immediately left London, quitting his job. But he had fallen on his feet. Had completed therapy to control his anger issues. His life was well-organised now but she did wonder how he endured the peace and silence of this beautiful but boring village. He, the notorious adrenaline-junkie. But perhaps this crass difference to living in the loud and hectic capital made it easier. John had calmed down for sure. But happy, he was not. Well, who was… Besides Sherlock… And Greg… Who was sharing his house with his _boyfriend_ now…

“You look as if you had a lemon for dinner,” John remarked, and she glowered at him and didn’t reply.

They hardly spoke with each other when they met apart from the only topic they had in common – their daughter. There was nothing else to say.

Ignoring him, she got down on her knees to play with her daughter and her goddaughter – the frog and the princess…

*****

Molly wondered if the noise would wake up the children. Rosie and Charlotte shared a room. John had furnished the room beautifully for both kids. Pink wallpaper, dark-red carpets, each of the girls had their own bed. The room was stuffed with doll houses and toys. Lulu was sleeping next to Rosie’s bed in her own basket, and when Molly had looked into the room to check on the girls, the dog had raised its head and looked at her as if to say, _‘Don’t worry. I’m keeping watch.’_

Molly had used the guest bathroom, had taken a long shower and washed her hair. When she had been ready, she had dressed in a thin nightgown – and gone into John’s bedroom.

There was a guest room – but she had never used it.

The bed was creaking loudly when he moved in her. No words had been spoken, like all the times before when she had been here or he had come to London. They had never spoken about this. None of them had drunk more than a glass of wine. It was not happening because they were drunk and out of control. It was happening because they were both so fucking lonely.

John was wearing a condom. None of them wanted a repeat of that first time. They had not mentioned this, either, but when it had happened for the first time, six months after Charlotte had been born, he had put the package onto the bed stand, and she had nodded approvingly.

They didn’t kiss. John’s face was buried in the pillow next to her head. Perhaps he got off on the lack of oxygen… Perhaps he just didn't feel any urge to engage in something as intimate as kissing. He was fucking her with hard, deep strokes. Maybe it was the unnerving day, the travel, Charlotte being so grizzly, but Molly couldn’t really let go, knowing she wouldn’t come like this. She felt uncomfortable and only wished for it to be over, but she felt too numb and depressed to ask him to stop – and she didn't think he would do that anyway.

Eventually, John raised his head and looked at her in the dark room as if he could see her expression. He pulled his cock out a moment later and it felt like a loss. But then he disappeared under the blanket, and a moment later, he was licking her, his deft tongue playing with her clit like Sherlock played the violin. And with a groan at her incapability of forgetting this godforsaken man even when she was fucking with someone else, a groan that stifled the name she had on her lips, she reached her crisis, coming while John was sucking her button. And then his penis was back in her and he chased his own climax, and without thinking or knowing why she should want to do this, she reached around him and fingered his hole and he came with a strangled noise.

And she slumped back in the pillows while John disentangled himself from her and got rid of the condom, turning his back to her. Panting, her eyes wide open, she pretended that she hadn’t noticed how he had stiffened in horror and that she had not heard the name that he had just stammered under his breath while shooting his seed into the condom – knowing that she could have hardly misunderstood it as it had been the same name that she had been about to croak at the heights of pleasure, and she wondered if their lives could get any more fucked-up.

#### Baker Street

“Wow. This cake looks awesome. Mycroft will love it.” Sherlock grinned at Mrs Hudson.

“Nasty boy! Don’t you dare tease your brother with it!”

“Never. Well, never again.” There had not been any weight jokes in the past three years and there would never be any more. Not just because they would have not been justified anyway – they had never been. Mycroft was slim and all the workout he was getting thanks to Sherlock had made him look trimmer and better in shape than ever.

“You better. I wish I could have put the right amount of candles into it,” Mrs Hudson mused, looking at the chocolate cake with the orange cream topping.

Sherlock snorted. “I can really do without forty candles to blow out.”

The old lady smiled at him sweetly. “Even though you should be very accustomed to that sort of thing now…”

Sherlock almost fell over. “Mrs Hudson!”

She giggled, not looking in the least remorseful. “I’m sorry, dear. I do know that they only call it ‘blowing’ while in fact it is…”

He put his hands over his ears in horror – and then burst out laughing, and they were still laughing like maniacs when Mycroft arrived a few minutes later, using his key.

The tall man shook his head with fond irritation. “Do I want to know what you two are laughing about?” he asked while curling his arm around the birthday boy and shaking hands with the old lady, who looked as if she was close to passing out.

“No,” Sherlock said with utter conviction, wiping his eyes. “It would blow you right out of the flat.” He looked at Mrs Hudson, who was gaping at him – and then they started to laugh again, and Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his grinning lover’s neck, grateful to the core that they could be so open about their love towards the woman who meant more to him than any other apart from his mother of course, who still had and never would have any idea that her boys were not only getting along better but were, in fact, madly in love with one another.

In the three years since that had become a couple, they had perfected deceiving anybody who needed to be deceived. Which was everybody apart from Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade. Sometimes they met up for a drink with the inspector. If he brought his respective partner, which he did very rarely, they made extra sure that they didn’t appear like a couple. But of course they could not exchange any kind of pleasantries in public anyway.

Without John’s blog and hardly any private clients, Sherlock was not as publicly known as he had once been but they could not risk anything. He worked more for the police than ever before – even outside of London now. But he made sure to always stay in the shadows and never get any credit for solved cases. He had never been out for fame anyway – all he had wanted was solving puzzles. He mostly took care of the hundreds of unsolved, ice-cold cases throughout England these days. He could not solve them all and often enough, the murderer or rapist was already dead, but it was a way to give the family’s of the victims or the victims themselves some kind of conclusion. It was a calmer life than he had been leading in these exciting years with the doctor at his side, fighting enemies like Jim Moriarty or C. A. Magnussen but Sherlock didn't miss these times one bit. He had everything he needed. Only sometimes… he thought about John. And Rosie… He had only seen her once in all this time in the previous summer, when he had bumped into Molly in Hyde Park where she had been picnicking with her daughter, who looked like John as a child, and Rosie, who resembled Mary more and more. John’s dog had been with them, too, and Sherlock had ended up with an armful of excited, extra cute dog and two sticky toddlers.

He had not asked about John but Molly had mentioned that he was still going strong in his doctor’s office. Between the lines there had been something else he had not even wanted to imagine. Molly had still not moved on. Perhaps she never would. And John? He seemed to be okay. A single dad who lived for his children and his work. And for screwing with the mother of his unplanned second child whenever they met...

Sherlock had felt weirdly down when he had gone home, and he had distracted himself with cooking a huge dinner that evening. Mycroft had tried to pretend he wasn’t deducing him and Sherlock had been grateful for it.

The cake was perfect and delicious, and they talked about Mycroft's awful day at work and their plans for the evening. They would see a show before heading home to Mycroft's to have dinner. Mycroft looked pretty weary, Sherlock realised, and not for the first time. They both knew it was time for him to get rid of all the pressure on his shoulders. A few years ago, Mycroft would have protested at the prospect, but Sherlock assumed that he wasn’t that averse to it anymore. Hopefully, he would slowly start to retire. He did delegate many of his meetings these days, working more from home, which Sherlock liked a lot as it meant more time for being nice to each other. Not just by having sex even though they indulged in all kinds of sexual activities with one another and Sherlock was convinced that they would love to pleasure each other in any way they could until their very last breath. But he also loved to just put his head into Mycroft's lap, have his brother play with his curls and talk to him. Mycroft was his partner in any sense and Sherlock loved him dearly.

“You won’t exchange me for a younger man now that I’m forty, will you?” he asked him now.

Mycroft made a pensive face. “Well, I did think of taking twenty year-old twins instead.”

“Bastard,” Sherlock mumbled, fondly, while Mrs Hudson giggled around her fork. “You wouldn’t survive that anyway…”

That brought him two raised eyebrows. “Given your… energy, little brother, it would be very relaxing…”

Sherlock burst out laughing again, and Mrs Hudson followed instantly, and Mycroft put a hand onto his neck and stroked him, and Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about officially being an old man now.

*****

They had both said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, thanking her for the marvellous afternoon and the fantastic cake, and Mycroft had called his driver to pick them up.

They stepped outside in the cold, clear January day and Sherlock saw the limousine waiting for them. And then he heard his brother mumble, “I fucking can’t believe his nerve…”

Before Sherlock followed his look, he already knew what, or better whom, he would see. Shivering, holding his collar up against his neck, John Watson was leaning against the wall, looking as if he was almost frozen to ice.

Mycroft turned to him. “Shall I tell him to fuck off?” There was nothing but tenderness and concern in his tone.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Give me five minutes.”

Mycroft smiled. “All right. Take your time. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Yes.” Sherlock would have died for kissing him but of course that was completely out of the question. He didn't even dare look at him the way he would have wanted to. But he knew that Mycroft could see it in his eyes anyway.

Steeling his back, he walked over to John, who had only now seen him.

“Oh, hi… I…” John huffed out a laugh. “I’ve been standing here for an hour. Didn’t dare go up. Thought Mrs Hudson would hit me with her frying pan.”

“Yeah, she does tend to do that.” Sherlock had reached him and stood, his hands in his pockets. He had no idea how he was feeling. He was hyper aware of Mycroft keeping his eyes glued to him.

“Happy birthday, I guess.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. It was a correct deduction. Thank you.”

“I should have brought you a present but… I didn't know…” John gave him the saddest smile he had ever seen. “It’s the…?”

“Oh, the fortieth.”

“Oh, that smarts.”

Sherlock grinned to his own surprise. “Yeah. No boy anymore.”

“You still look like one. Amazing. Haven’t aged a day.”

“No need to flatter me, John. But… You look good, too.” And he did. Healthy. Trim. He looked younger than when Sherlock had last seen him. Less exhausted. Less volatile. He obviously didn’t drink.

John shrugged. “Doing my best. With a kid to raise and another one to look after every once in a while… It makes you grow up. Listen…”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I have to!” John started to pace around him, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft was watching even more closely now. But he should see that Sherlock was not in any kind of danger. “I can’t even say how often I scrolled down to your number. Started a letter. A million times.”

Tears were glistening in his huge blue eyes now, and Sherlock felt his throat get tight.

John stared at him and sniffed. “I wanted to say sorry. I know it’s too late and what I did… There’s no excuse for what I did – when you came back from saving me from Moriarty. Molly told me about it. Years later. I never really asked you, did I?”

Sherlock felt tears welling up in his eyes, and they had nothing to do with the cold. “No,” he whispered. He couldn’t have brought out anything else if his life had depended on it.

“And Mary… It was not your fault. I know I said it before and blamed you again but… it was her decision. I know you wanted me to save you because she told you to. But kicking and hitting you was inexcusable. And last time… God… I was a wreck. I hated myself and I hated everybody. I still hate myself and I have every reason to do so. But I don’t hate you. I know there’s no way back to the old times and I don’t even ask you to forgive me. You did again and again and I only made it worse. But I just had to come here, today, and tell you that I regret everything I did to you. I’m sorry. The times with you were the best times of my life. I’ve got the kids now and I live in a lovely place and it’s all fine. But I will never forget the fun we had, the adventures we went through. It will always have a special place in my heart. You will, too. I… love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock almost fainted as he deduced what kind of love John was talking about. But John’s words had touched him deeply – the genuine apology, the sentiment, the regret.

John licked his lips anxiously. “It’s okay, I know you’re with someone, Molly said, and you look happy. That’s great. There’ll never be someone like you for me again. I fucked it up. I was the biggest arsehole in history. I just… Sorry, Sherlock. You are great and I didn’t mean what I said to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was just… a total…”

“...wanker?” Sherlock had finally regained his ability to talk, and the joke had come out of nowhere.

John gaped at him for a moment before he grinned. “Yeah. I was. I… I guess I’ll take the next train back now. A neighbour is looking after Rosie and my dog. Thanks for listening to me. I wish I could make it all undone. And that we could talk from time to time. But I guess… it’s too late.”

Sherlock thought of the hurt this man had inflicted on him. Of words full of hatred and contempt. How he had treated Molly after impregnating her. And he thought of the man who had saved his life on the very first day. Who had been his conscience. Who had made him a better man. Of Mary, who had told them to stick together. It would never be like this anymore. But…

“No. It’s not,” he said very quietly. “Too late. We can… call each other, from time to time. And maybe, when you’re in London to see Charlotte… I could tag along. Have tea with you.” Would Mycroft understand? And Greg? Probably not. But they would accept it because they loved him. That John obviously had… feelings for him wouldn’t make that any easier. But John would hardly ever make a move on him or even mention it again.

“God… That would be… awesome. Thank you. It means the world to me. I swear I’ll never mess it up again.”

“You better not, John, because my brother…” Sherlock broke off but John nodded at once.

“Yeah. You’re getting along better, that’s splendid.” John seemed to genuinely mean that.

Of course he had no idea how much better they got along, and he would never know. Would Sherlock have told the old John? The supportive, decent John? It was hard to say.

“Greg hates me, too. I’ll apologise to him as well. When Sally’s not around…”

Sherlock grinned and John did, too, and it felt damn great.

“All I wish for is some kind of contact,” John said, wiping his right eye. “Friendship. To show you that I’ve changed. I… searched for professional help. It worked. I’m not that loose cannon kind of man anymore. And if we could just see each other every once in a while, that would be great.”

And Sherlock understood that John wouldn’t even want any deeper contact as it would only hurt more, considering John’s feelings for him. They would see how it worked. But talking to the man he had considered his best friend for so many years had made a hidden part of his soul loosen up as if a ring of stone or ice had been pressing it together. The era of him and John as partners in solving crimes and being close friends had ended years ago. He had Mycroft and he was completely happy with him. But to see John every few weeks or talk to him on the phone… Yes. He wanted this. And when John offered him his hand, tears of relief in his eyes, he shook it, and he watched John walk around the corner before he hurried to the car in which Mycroft was waiting for him.

He slipped onto the back seat next to him, his heart beating faster as he really didn't want to make his partner feel angry or disappointed. But Mycroft just smiled and took his hand – as the privacy screen was up and the windows were black – and when they drove off, they kissed, and Sherlock couldn’t have been any happier.

#### Sherlock And Mycroft

“Mmm. I could get used to that.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Drinking champagne in bed?”

“Really good champagne,” praised Sherlock, raising his glass in another silent toast.

“Of course!”

Sherlock grinned. “I know you wouldn’t want to be caught drinking gnat’s piss, as John once put it so eloquently.”

“The wisdom of Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock was glad that he had said it without too much resentment. Three years had passed since John had come back into his life. In a minor capacity. They met up every two or three months, either alone or with John’s rather unconventional family – Rosie, Charlotte, who looked more like him every time Sherlock saw her, much to his amusement, and black-haired little Jack. Jack had been another ‘accident’. A damaged condom, Molly had dryly said. She joined him and John sometimes, at other times, she took the chance to have some time for herself and took Lulu for a long walk. They had never become a real couple – John and Molly – but neither of them had the time or energy to look for someone else so they obviously still shared a bed once or twice a month. Lestrade had joked that if they went on like this, they would eventually have a rugby team. But Molly was forty-two now so she would hardly get too many more children.

It was all going rather smoothly. John had never shown this ugly side again. True – he and Sherlock never got into any situations anymore where this could have happened. But as Sherlock had thought all those years ago, John was also a patient albeit strict father and he never raised a hand against his children or Molly. Let alone the dog of which every member of the Hooper-Watson-family was very fond. And when they were alone, or even together with Molly and the kids, John might shoot a longing glance at him, but neither of them ever mentioned it. Sherlock had no idea when John might have developed such feelings for him. Perhaps he had always had them but only found out about them during his therapy – the first one that had obviously really worked for him. It felt weird to see those looks but Sherlock could live with them as they never led to any embarrassing situation. And John never asked about the person Sherlock was apparently dating. It was all pretty fine.

Lestrade had reluctantly agreed on giving John the chance to redeem himself. They would never become friends anymore as Greg was much more resentful than Sherlock for John treating Sherlock badly but at least they behaved in a civilised way when they met for the odd Christmas party or Charlotte’s birthday.

Mycroft didn’t join them very often. He and Sherlock didn’t pretend to be at odds with each other if Mycroft came along when Sherlock had people over. In fact, they had made clear that they were on better terms these days as none of them had any interest in bickering around to fool everybody. But since still nobody apart from Mrs Hudson and Greg knew about their relationship, Mycroft was clearly not feeling overly comfortable with meeting Sherlock if John and/or Molly were around. Not only because Mycroft didn’t like either of them, not even because they both were still interested in Sherlock (much to his and Sherlock's chagrin) but because he hated to be looked at as the stiff, overprotective older brother when in reality he was Sherlock's other half. And not even Greg’s respective boyfriend or girlfriend knew it – the relationship could (and did) run its course anytime and then someone they couldn’t really trust would know about them. And it was too strenuous to let corpses disappear all the time, Mycroft had dryly remarked, hinting at Greg’s interesting and volatile love life. Greg had poked his tongue out at him and they had laughed.

And they were fine with it – being very private people in general, they didn’t feel the urge to brag about their feelings for each other. It was nice to joke around and even kiss when Mrs Hudson was with them, knowing that she loved to see them together and would never give them away. They were not physical around Greg, not even when they were not in public, apart from the odd touch of a shoulder or a hair-ruffling, simply because Sherlock worked with Lestrade and even though he considered Greg a friend, and a really good one, he drew the line at getting tactile with big brother next to the policeman. He assumed that Greg wouldn’t have minded and perhaps harboured certain fantasies about getting in the middle of them, but that would happen only over his dead body so they better not fuel the DI’s imagination any further.

Being together in a way society and law condemned did have its difficulties – but they had accepted them and didn’t bother about them very much. They lived their lives like they wanted to after all, just not in the open, and that was okay. Sherlock did visit their sister from time to time but she still hadn't started to talk again, and they assumed that she never would. At least she had not tried to manipulate anyone into helping her escape or take over the prison again, which Mycroft found very nice. Twice a year, they visited their parents, and they were always happy to meet them and to see how well their sons were getting along. Both parents were in good spirits and still took part in their beloved line dancing appointments every few weeks. The previous Christmas, when they had been in Mycroft's room late at night, cuddled up on his bed, Sherlock had remarked that if they wanted to get the parents’ house and huge property sometime soon, they just had to kiss and grope each other in front of them, and had then yelped as Mycroft had pulled him at the ear for this insolence.

Sherlock was still busy with his cold cases and sometimes very hot ones, and Mycroft always worried that he could be injured in the process. But Sherlock had become way more careful as he had a lot to lose now. He was not in the first row anymore when it came to confronting a killer or a kidnapper. And he wasn’t getting younger, either. With forty-three, his knees didn’t like running around in London that much anymore. So he was happier when he was cuddled up, preferably against his brother, on the couch, reading old reports and trying to figure out who had killed Grandma Walker fifteen years ago. And he was well aware that Mycroft appreciated this preference very much.

And now they had something to celebrate. Two things, actually. Mycroft had become fifty today – and he had semi-retired from his job. He would still get reports and read them every morning to filter the important data and then mail his conclusions to Sir Edwin or whoever else had to be informed. He wouldn’t attend any meetings anymore. The PM wasn’t to bother him anymore with stupid phone calls. Lady Smallwood could no longer sneak into his office to try and seduce him as he didn’t have an office.

Sherlock had been over the moon when Mycroft had told him about his decision four months ago. They would have so much more time for each other and Mycroft would be a lot more relaxed. At least Sherlock hoped that he wouldn’t worry about the safety of the kingdom all the time anymore, especially now as he had to leave the imbeciles mostly to themselves. But if he did, Sherlock would distract him. Thoroughly…

When Mycroft had told him and had finished chuckling at little brother clinging to his neck in enthusiasm, he had added that Sherlock was not to take advantage of him being at home all day by molesting him all the time now, which had brought him a painful pinch to a well-cushioned body part.

“On loving a pensioner!” Sherlock said now and raised his glass again.

“I’ll make sure to buy a walking stick tomorrow,” Mycroft retorted. “Might come in handy for other purposes as well…”

“An empty promise if I ever heard one,” Sherlock said, unimpressed, and emptied his glass. “I drank so much now… I might need to pee…”

“Well, you know where the bathroom is.”

“Spoilsport.”

They grinned at each other, and Sherlock felt wonderfully tipsy and decidedly happy. And horny…

Mycroft saw it in his eyes and sighed deeply. “Must I again?”

“Yes, old man, you must. We haven’t had sex for so long that my hole has practically healed over.”

“Yeah, since last night! And actually… As I’m officially old and doddery now, I think you should do all the work for a change.”

“Ooh! I may?” Of course he had topped his brother before, but since he liked to be on bottom so much and Mycroft was rather fond of taking him, it was still a special occasion if they reversed roles.

Mycroft took his glass before he could drop it in excitement and set both glasses onto the bed stand. “Yes, little brother. You may. My arse is your arse etc.”

“I like my arse…” Sherlock hurried to get rid of his pants, the only piece of clothing he was still wearing.

Mycroft was still wrapped in a pricey shirt and his trousers. “I know you do. Now undress me, my sexy servant, and make sure your middle-aged master is prepared properly.”

“What is this – an alliteration contest?” Sherlock shook his head, fondly. “You are getting crazy in your old age.” He fumbled with Mycroft's shirt buttons rather impatiently before Mycroft batted his hands away to undo them before he could rip them off.

“I’m in love with you – that already qualifies me as being crazy as an otter.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Are otters especially crazy?”

“I’ve heard as much,” Mycroft claimed and wriggled out of his trousers – looking pretty otter-like in the process. “Don't laugh at your old brother!”

Sherlock giggled even harder. “Ah, my naked prince of body hair. Let me devour you before I’ll impale you!”

“So it be,” Mycroft surrendered, and Sherlock proceeded to prepare big brother thoroughly.

*****

If there was any prettier sight than big brother lying flat on his back with a cushion behind his neck, holding up those long legs so Sherlock could access his hidden spot, all pale and hairy glory on display, Sherlock hadn’t seen it and didn’t believe it even existed.

And nothing could taste better than this rosy little opening, surrounded by more black hair. Mycroft had, self-consciously, offered to shave at least this part of his body when Sherlock had been about to rim him for the first time, but Sherlock had just glowered at him and asked him if he wanted to get spanked instead. He knew that Mycroft didn’t find himself very attractive and when this topic came up, he always shook his head and wondered how someone so smart could be so silly sometimes.

He worked his tongue into the clenching opening, aided by just a hint of lubrication, lots of spit and two fingers, and judging by the noises his brother was producing, he was enjoying himself every bit as much as Sherlock was.

Sherlock continued to lick and lap and suck and invade until Mycroft was a stammering mess and one of big brother’s hands was almost painfully pushing him against his entrance to get just that bit more friction. Before he could collapse or suffocate, Sherlock gently disentangled himself from the needy grip and straightened his creaking back.

“Are you ready to…”

“Yes! Fuck me already!” Mycroft, all heated cheeks and sweaty forelock, glowered at him.

“So impolite and impatient,” tutted Sherlock and grabbed for the bottle of lube to work some of the cinnamon-flavoured fluid in the fluttering opening and coat his fully erect cock with it. Then he lined up, draped the slim, endless legs over his shoulders and slowly sank into tight, sticky heat, making them both moan at the intimate contact.

“Thank God Mummy already called…” Sherlock mumbled, earning a groan.

“You know the rules! Don’t mention Mummy when we are doing this!”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Sherlock grinned, starting to move just a bit. “What about that old lady you were working with…”

“I hate you.”

Sherlock bent his head back and laughed. Then he looked down on his lover, winking. “Well, let’s see if I can make you love me again.” And with this, he began thrusting in earnest, and from this moment on, all that was breaking the silence of Mycroft's bedroom were the quiet creaking of the mattress, increasingly loud moans and the clashing of skin on skin.

*****

Maybe this was the road to hell. But since it felt like heaven and Mycroft believed in neither, he just let go and let baby brother take him to a unique kind of paradise.

Sherlock looked incredible above him – watching him through his long lashes, his lips and cheeks reddened, his breath hitched and his mouth slightly opened, crying for being kissed. The muscles in his arms, which were propped up on either side of Mycroft's torso, were working beautifully while he was pumping away. Mycroft was being so wonderfully stretched around Sherlock's thick cock, and he urged him on with his looks, his hands on his brother’s beautiful face, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs.

Mycroft loved to possess Sherlock but he also very much liked to be possessed by him. There was nothing but want and adoration in Sherlock's eyes, as well as the will to please him and stimulate this extra sensitive spot inside him. Mycroft moaned when he hit it and Sherlock hurried to brush over the same spot again, making him wiggle with want. His cock, trapped between their bodies, was deliciously rubbing across Sherlock's plane, muscular abdomen while Sherlock was fucking him with increasing force but never without care.

They did have sex in other positions as well but they had a special preference for the missionary position, being able to look each other in the eyes, with the top being in control of the depth and angle of penetration.

Deviously, Mycroft reached around Sherlock’s arse to stimulate his damp, clenching hole, and Sherlock hissed and came after two very deep strokes, releasing his come into him, driving Mycroft over the edge in the process as he loved to be filled up with his brotherly lover’s seed.

He spurted all over his rapidly moving chest, and Sherlock grabbed his cock and milked it until it twitched in his hand and Mycroft felt as if he had been torn in two. Sherlock rubbed his essence into his hairy stomach and chest, and Mycroft sighed.

“It will just make it harder to clean me up, insolent boy,” he chided playfully.

“Oh, sorry.” Not being sorry in the least, Sherlock bent over him and licked him from his pubic hair to his nipples, up and down, until he was clean. “Better?” he asked then, winking.

Mycroft had watched him in awe. Who would believe him that the aloof Sherlock Holmes would be amenable to doing something that naughty? “You are…”

“...incorrigible, I know.” Sherlock rearranged himself on the bed, next to him, and urged Mycroft to cover him with his full weight.

“Using the British Government as a blanket? I’m appalled,” lied Mycroft, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's.

“You’re not the British Government anymore,” mumbled Sherlock, kissing his nose. “You’re my Mycroft and nothing else.”

Mycroft smiled and carded his fingers through little brother’s short, damp curls. “I never was, dear. And I’ve always been your Mycroft.”

And this was the truth. They had needed to go a long way to get to this. Being not only brothers who supported and liked each other. This had been difficult enough. But also being partners in any way, as well as best friends. Because Mycroft knew very well if he asked Sherlock now who his best friend was, he would not say ‘John Watson’. And not ‘Greg Lestrade’. Both men were still (respectively again) Sherlock's friends and Mycroft was fine with it. Of course he wouldn’t have minded if John had disappeared from his brother’s life forever and that the doctor seemed to have discovered feelings for him that were not to Mycroft's liking at all didn't make him any fonder of the man. But he knew that John wasn’t a threat to their relationship. He was not a threat to Sherlock's health and heart anymore.

Mycroft owned his brother’s heart, his trust, and his body, and he was now also his best friend. While Sherlock's other friends were still struggling to find happiness or had given up on it altogether – Greg had, after his divorce, an obviously very exciting love life without finding anyone he wanted to spend more than two months with.

Molly and John, parents of two unplanned children, also united in their unhealthy pining for Sherlock and fucking each other’s brains out to distract themselves from it – like some weird sort of ‘friends with benefits’ without even being friends… Mycroft had occasionally seen them together and he didn't think they even liked each other. He really didn’t envy them.

He had found what he had never known or even dreamt he could have. People like him – they didn't find love. They didn't even care about relationships. Maybe they missed being with someone during a stormy night, cuddled up with nothing but their blanket, but usually, they didn't bother with nasty little emotions. They focused on their work. Did what had to be done. Not missing anything.

And now he had given up a job that had taken him decades to build up. And he did it without any regret. Sherlock had never right-out asked him to do it. He had just wanted him to take care of himself and not let the stress of his responsible position get the best of him. But Mycroft had known it was time to let other people take over. Still do something they wouldn’t be able to do – connecting the dots, draw conclusions they wouldn’t even dream of figuring out. Of course – one day he would be gone for good like everybody had to eventually. But his remaining time, and he hoped he had at least three more decades left, he wanted to spend doing what he loved doing most. And that was not arguing with foreign diplomats. Chiding the Prime Minister. Escaping Lady Smallwood’s advances. Orchestrating elections.

It was taking care of the one man he had ever loved. Who let him take care of him, finally. Whose eyes brightened up when he saw him. Who loved to kiss and caress him and who didn't want to live without physical contact with him for even a day. They did argue sometimes but they always reconciled before going to sleep. And there was never real spite in their arguments. They had wasted decades on resentments and estrangement, and neither of them was willing to waste another day on them anymore.

His lips found Sherlock's, and they kissed, deeply and tenderly, and Sherlock's arms were tightly wrapped around his waist, while Mycroft was holding him around the shoulders. They would fall asleep like this, neither of them caring about being rather sticky and covered with drying sweat.

Mycroft knew he could sleep peacefully, knowing that Sherlock, the not-so-reckless-anymore detective, the man who didn't get high to not get bored anymore, was safe with him, that his little brother’s troubled soul had finally found its loving home, and so had his own.

The End


End file.
